Mike and I came over the hill from the ranch headquarters into the little valley where I'd gathered a herd. Below us, three men circled my cattle, moving them slowly west, grazing, letting them walk. No hurry. Just moving steadily to market.

            It was only a hundred head, but they were all legal and they were all mine. However, the men driving the cattle weren't my hands. They were strangers. They hadn't seen us yet. We pulled back into the shadows.

            No one in the Killdeere clan had been home to help me drive the herd down to Dayton, Nevada, where buyers were waiting. The whole gang were off on another raid. In the four years since I'd quit riding with them, they'd robbed a train car full of gold bullion out of San Francisco, an ingot-loaded coach in Colorado, besides several banks.

            In those same four years I'd worked the ranch: cleaned out springs and made ponds by using blasting powder at crucial points above streams. I branded our cows, the KD-connected. I put my brand on all the calves my cows dropped and a few unbranded mavericks I found. But I never shot another man's cow to "make a maverick."

            Finally, I had enough cattle to sell and put some honest money into my pockets. But now somebody else was taking my cows.

            "Rustlers?" Mike asked. "Rustlers dare to take a Killdeere herd?"

            "Seems that way. Maybe they think I'm on another part of the ranch after more cattle, and they got time." I checked the loads in my handgun. "Maybe they're expecting me."

            "Billy, I'll back you, but I ain't got a gun." Mike, a fifteen-year-old boy from the next ranch, was my one hand.

            "You take my carbine, but stay back with the horses. If I run into big trouble, you might send over a shot or two, to kind of jar them, then light out. Just tell Uncle Jake what you saw."

            "I'd like to side you . . . but I guess I should stay up here and cover your back with a carbine. I can shoot real good, too."

            "That's the way Johnny Waco and I always did it. Whoever's play it was, the other stayed back and covered him."

            "Did you have a signal?" His eyes gleamed with eagerness.

            "I think they'll cut and run when they see I've come back and caught them. If that doesn't work, I'll raise my left shoulder and let it drop. Like this. You shoot once, and I'll take it from there."

            I'd grown up with a gun in my hand--riding and robbing and shooting--but I didn't want him hurt or in trouble. "Dismount and find a good rest for that carbine, use your horse's back if you can't find anything else. Don't kill anyone. Just dust things good, then skedaddle. When Uncle Jake gets home, tell him what you saw. All of it."

            The sun was still low in the east when I rode down on them. They were in no hurry. They exchanged glances, then rode to meet me.

            "You can ride away and leave my cattle," I said. "Right now."

            "Don't reckon we will." The one who spoke was in better clothes than you usually see on a rustler. He was shaved, and his boots weren't as run down. He spat a stream of tobacco juice at the ground, then sat his horse just looking at me.

            The second man wore a red bandanna and a red shirt. His boots were run down, scuffed and dirty. He rode up about ten feet from the other. If they thought they'd box me, they could think again. I'd learned that trick before I was sixteen.

            When the third man came in, though, he rode up between them. He wore a bright orange vest and a faded green shirt--I think that's what it used to be, and the band of his hat matched the vest. Not a good set of colors. Wonder the cows didn't take one look and stampede.

            "What makes you think you can ride in, collect another man's cows, and just drift them away? You gonna make me shoot you to stop you?"

            "Would you?" asked Red Shirt.

            "If I have to." I didn't make any brags. They could tell that I'd used a gun by looking. But they still didn't look worried.

            "So would I," a fourth man spoke from behind me. "Get his gun, Matt, and we'll see how loud he talks then."

            Over the years I'd been drilled in the ways that give a man the best chance of getting out of a tight place alive. This was one of those times. I had to be on the ground, so I lifted a leg and dropped.

            Number four fired. His shot tore my shirt. I had my gun out, too, and my shot lifted the one in front of me from his saddle. It was green shirt. I fired again, to be sure he didn't give me trouble later.

            My horse was between me and the fourth man and enough in the way so the guy in clothes too good for a rustler couldn't get a good shot. Red Shirt had pulled out his pistol and was pointing it my way. I shot him. Then a ton of rocks or a gun barrel crashed into the top of my head and I found myself going down. I tried to roll free, but my eyes were full of dirt and didn't want to work for the pain.

            "Finish him. He's kilt Matt and Barney."

            Before one of them could shoot, I heard the slap of a slug on dirt, then the wicked scream of a slug that's hit a rock and ricocheted. Mike was shooting. I hadn't used the shoulder signal, but he hadn't waited.

            "Gawd damn, he's not alone. Get outta here."

            "Right, but we're taking the cows. Run 'em!"

            Whoops and yells; the rifle firing twice more; cows running; horses thundering past; then it got quiet. I rolled and crawled into the shelter of a rock. I could see close around me, but mostly it was foggy more than two strides away. Whatever hit me had hit me good.

            No one shot at me again. By touch, I got my pistol loaded, but no sounds came close. I could see about twelve feet now. My mount, a light-colored gelding, wandered over. Wonder he hadn't lit out for home.

            Then a horse approached. I listened, got its direction, and lifted my gun.

            "Billy? You all right? You didn't go after them when I shook 'em up." Mike's horse's feet came into view.

            "Mike, is that you? I can't seem to see very far."

            "He hit you with his rifle butt. Used an overhead swing, since he was where he couldn't get a shot. You went down. Can you see at all?"

            "Yeah." I stood up. "I can see your shape, and kind of make out your face. Guess he got me just right. They gone?"

            "Yep. So are your cows. With your head like it is, we're not going after them right off."

            "Guess not. Better get us back out of sight and make a camp. I hurt like hell." My horse was standing there and I walked carefully to it. Every step hurt, but I could see it, and the world didn't shift around like it does, or seems to, when you're weak or drunk. My horse stood while I mounted. Then it followed Mike.

            From the horse's back I could see about twenty feet. Beyond that, the world was a hazy blend of colors and "almost" shapes. It was scary.

            On the hill, Mike collected our spare riding horses and the pack horse and led us to a spot under some trees beside a stream. It was better out of the sun, and I held a wet kerchief, soaked frequently in the cool water, to my aching head.

            He fixed coffee, then told me to try to take a nap and that he'd keep watch. "Reckon they'll be back?"

            "If they took the cows, not before they make a night stop." Looking over my cup, I could see about fifty feet before the world got blurry. "How many?"

            "Two riding. Two were face down over their horses. Reckon you killed them."

            "So two men are handling nearly a hundred head. They won't be back. They'll move fast to sell the cows. Like Serpa suggested . . . . "

            Mike went out to watch and I leaned back to nap . . . or think.

            Three days ago Tony Serpa, the county sheriff, had ridden slowly into the ranch and had looked around cautiously, dismounted, watered his horse and started for the house. So I'd come out of the shop where I had the forge going, making shoes for my horses. He turned slowly and carefully to face me.

            "Well," he'd said, "good to see you here, Billy."

            "Why does that sound like bad news?"

            "Because," he looped his horse's reins over the tie bar by the barn, "they was a train robbery over East, to Colorado, and it had all the signs of a Killdeere sortie. Rocks to stop a train, then blasting powder to open the federal car. You bought powder last year."

            "It was three years ago," I said. "That does sound . . . bad." Like Uncle Moses' work. "Men killed?"

            "Three killed by the blast. Four shot down." Tony shifted around like a bashful boy asking a girl to dance. "Billy, I been leaving your Uncles and the boys alone, as long as they didn't rob any in Nevada. But things like this are Federal. They send ripples all the way 'cross the country and now I'm gitting all kinds of pressure. They gone?"

            "You can look around. We never gave you any trouble, Mr. Serpa. You do what you gotta do." He headed for the house; I fell in beside him.

            He made a casual search inside the house for any other Killdeeres, or our cousins, the Wacos, and Brandywines. Back on the dirt-floored front porch, he turned to me. "Billy, the man they said shot down three of those fellers sure sounded like you. Glad it wasn't. If yore here, you ain't there."

            "I'm here, working the ranch. Trying to make it go." I leaned against a post holding the porch roof up. Johnny Waco was built a lot like me. I heard that he liked killing the way some men like alcohol, or some dogs get on a sheep killing binge and can't stop. "Uh, Mr. Serpa, how much did they get?"

            "Fifty thousand dollars."

            "Damn. Maybe that will satisfy . . . someone for a while."

            "Maybe." He spat tobacco juice into the dust then looked up at me. "You got cattle to sell?"

            "Been thinking about it. Buyers in town?"

            "In Dayton. Not a bad drive. It would shorely look good if you was to trail a herd to town, even a small one. Show people that you was really ranching, and was here when the robbery was pulled. Might make people think you was all here, tending to business."

            So I'd done it. Put together a herd. And gotten robbed of it.

            Now I had a hell of a headache, but by the next morning, I could see nearly as good as ever, close. Distant things were blurry, like on a hazy day, but I'd get by. I helped Mike scrub off the dishes after we'd had breakfast.

            "Time for me to ride along and talk to those boys." I told him.

            Mike agreed. "I'll pack things for the trail. We'll catch--"

            "Not you. I'm going alone. I'll take two horses and what I'll need for a day or two. You go home." He got a stubborn look, so I added, "I hired you to chase cows. Not to be a gun fighter. You don't need a rep, or the law after you, like it is after me. You go home."

            He grumbled, but he went. I spent the day resting, wishing my aching head would ease off. About sundown it seemed to let up. I ate a supper and slept well.

            Sunup saw me washing out my coffee pot, packing my gear, getting ready to ride. It was an easy trail; it's hard to hide a hundred head of cattle.

            When I caught up to them, it was an hour before sundown and they were less than a mile from the loading pens. I hobbled the light-colored gelding I'd ridden yesterday, near water, and went down on the bay mare.

            One of the two men I'd had that run-in with was talking to two other men while the other circled the herd. The subject of the talk was two unmoving piles on the ground, dead men. When I recognized Tony Serpa, the sheriff, as one of the live ones, I rode down to them.

            The rustler on the ground by the bodies picked up a rifle. The second rustler started around the herd a little faster. The last man just looked at me. He put his hands on his saddle horn and grinned.

            "You boys picked up the wrong herd," I said. "This one's mine."

            Serpa frowned. "They tell me you shot down these two and tried to steal their herd, Billy. When I suggested bringing in a herd to sell, I didn't mean to steal it."

            "That's not quite right. They started driving off my herd, after I'd gathered it, and when I told them no, they tried to kill me."

            "I don't think so." It was the man whose clothes were too good for a rustler. "We're Rogers and Daniels, and that's our RD-connected brand. We're selling to Mr. Carter, here."

            I pushed back my hat. "Two days ago they wore KD-connected. Bet there isn't a healed brand in the bunch. You boys made a mistake. You almost made a bigger one, Mr. Carter."

            "I buy cows, these boys have them." The man called Carter had a smug look I didn't like.

            "You're alone," said the man the ground. "We say it's your mistake and you tried to steal the cows. It's our word against yours, and they've got our brand. Who is KD supposed to be, anyway?"

            "It's our family's brand. Killdeere. I'm Billy, James Williams Killdeere, to be exact. You could ask the sheriff. He knows me."

            "Oh, I know who you are, all right. I know exactly who you are. You're a robber and a killer. To now, it's been banks and coaches. You going after cows these days, Billy?"

            "You got proof they're yours?" Carter asked, He looked as if he wanted me to argue. "If not I'm buying from these boys. The sheriff can do what he wants about the dead men. Personally, I'd hang you."

            "I bred them. No bill of sale. But kill and skin any cow here and you'll find my KD brand under the unhealed RD brand."

            "If there is, it'll be a miracle," said Carter. "These boys wired me from down South, by Adams Kiln, three days ago, they'd bought a herd."

            The man who'd been circling the herd rode up. He didn't touch a gun, but his hands were on the saddle horn and he had a cross-draw holster inches from his right hand. He nodded. "That's right."

            "You're lying, too," I said. "Three days ago, these cows were on my range and Sheriff Serpa was telling me there were buyers here."

            Calling a man a liar could end in sudden gunfire. But what could I do? These were my cows and I wasn't about to walk away and let these guys steal them. I watched the one with the rifle and the one with the cross-draw and didn't let my eyes stray too far from Carter. Serpa was an old friend, and he wouldn't pull on me, besides he'd know Uncle Jake would call on him, probably with a few of my cousins along for the show.

            Serpa shook his head. "I really thought you'd straightened out. Maybe it was wishful thinking. What I see are two dead men, cows with an RD-connected brand, and you with a gun on your hip. Guess I got no choice but to arrest you." He took a deep breath.

            Sounds in the deepening shadows around me. He had more men out there. I was in a box.

            "Billy Killdeere, you're under arrest for robbery and murder . . . ."

            "Just a minute, Serpa, why don't you kill and skin a cow? And wire Adams Kiln? Or don't you want to know? Would it upset your plans?"

            There was the sound of a rifle being cocked out in the darkness, about fifty feet away. I took a step closer to Serpa and dropped my hand to my pistol. And a rifle barrel jabbed me in the back.

            The man came around where he would be sure I could see how dangerous he was with a gun pointed at me. Sheriff Serpa took my gun and hit me hard, backhanded. He expected me to go down.

            Instead I kicked his knee hard, stepped so he was between me and the man with the gun, and kneed him in the stomach. When he doubled over, I grabbed his head, jerked down, and brought my knee up to meet it. He sagged and I caught him. Then someone hit me behind the head. In fact, someone hit me about everywhere there is to hit a man, until I lost track. I stopped feeling anything. I couldn't see again, either.

            When I came to, the sheriff was sitting on the ground watching me. He was kind of fuzzy. Someone's blow had hit where I was hurt before. "Billy Killdeere, I'm going to hang you, now or later. Yore family has run these parts too long. It's about to end."

            Somehow words came out when I worked my lips. "I don't know what's eating you-all. No Killdeere has ever broken a law in the state of Nevada." It was slow going, making words with cut lips and a sore jaw.

            "So why are you helping these fellers rob me?" I asked. "We both know that you know those are my cows. Do you want trouble with the Killdeere clan? For a hundred head of cows? Come on!"

            "Any trouble, we'll welc--" began Carter, the buyer.

            "Shut up, Carter." Serpa groaned when he stood up. "I'll check for a brand, but I got to hold these cows until I get it settled."

            "What's to settle? Kill a cow and skin it." I said.

            At Carter's grin, I had a sudden fear there was one cow that didn't have my brand, one they'd put there, and that was the one they'd shoot, and say, "See?" and hang me.

            "Hell, let's just shoot him, like he did . . . ."

            "Carter, I said, 'Shut up.' I'll make the decisions here." Serpa thought a bit. "You're under arrest, like I said. Keep him covered. We'll put him in a cell and have a trial. All legal."

            What he had thought about was what my family would do to a man and a town that lynched me. He figured a trial would prevent that. He was probably right. Some would see if they could bust me out, if they got word in time, but they wouldn't go on a vengeance tear. I was in this by my lonesome.

            "Watch him." He picked up my pistol and pulled off my gunbelt.

            "Nice rig. Well-balanced gun. Guess I'll keep it." With his eyes, he dared me to argue. I hurt too much.

            "I tried, I really tried to make an honest dollar." Thought Serpa's face was blurred, I held his eyes from where I was on the ground, unarmed, my hands in irons. "How much is in your bank, Sheriff? I think maybe I'll take a look, or some Killdeere will."

            "You wouldn't. By God, I will kill you." He touched the gun.

                        #                                                                                              #                                                                                              #

            By morning, I could see again. My head had a slight ache in the back, where my skull and backbone come together, but I could think. They'd have a quick trial and get me hung before the Killdeere gang got back from that job in Colorado. If I wanted to live, I had to get myself out. How?

            They'd taken my gun, my boots and my belt. Even my kerchief was gone so I wouldn't wrap that over someone's neck. But I was in my clothes. I scratched my arm, then my side, my leg, and my back. The sheriff hadn't searched real good. The knife tied to my left shin was there.

            At breakfast time they were careful. One deputy stood back holding a rifle on me while the other opened the door and set a plate of food and a cup of coffee on the floor, just inside the door. I didn't move while they did their drill.

            It was decent food from the restaurant across the street. I ate it and drank half the coffee. Then I set the dishes on the floor beside the bed. The two deputies had watched me from beyond a second set of bars while I ate. I laid back down and stretched out, then doubled up my left knee, my hands folded across my stomach.

            "Push your plate over by the door, Killdeere."

            "I'm not finished with my coffee yet. Wait."

            "Don't feel like waiting. Move it. Now. Jump, Killdeere."

            "Go to hell." I didn't move.

            There was a bit of swearing and threatening. "If I have to come in, you'll be sorry."

            "I'm scared to death." I grinned insolently, daring them to try.

            One of them did. The other held a gun on me, just like before. There was one difference. When the one who came in reached for the cup, I grabbed his arm, and jerked him to me. Before the one with the rifle realized it amounted to anything, I had my blade at the other's throat.

            "Hold still, because I really don't give a shit whether I kill you or not. Don't make it hard to leave you alive." To the one with the rifle: "Shoot it or drop it."

            He held it, just watching. Waiting for me to make a mistake. I walked my man out of the cell. When I could reach the desk, I grabbed his pistol and cocked it. "Now drop it!"

            He did. I put both men in the cell I'd just left and found my own gun. I kept the one I'd taken from the desk. I'd need two. Hell, I'd probably need six or seven before I got out of this town alive. At least I could see, now. Three horses at the tie bar right out front. One hell of a temptation. Then I grinned.

            "Peel," I said to the deputy nearest my size. "Hurry up."

            In the office, we traded clothes to our long johns. "Which horse out there is whose?" I asked him.

            "The dun is mine. Why? You gonna steal it?"

            "I wouldn't do that. You go out and get on it. Ride south, out of town." I put a gag in his mouth and prodded him out the door. "Now go, ride hard!"

            When he was half a block away I fired in the air and yelled. "Jail break. Stop Killdeere!"

            Every one looked. They saw what they expected to see, and lit out after him. I walked the other way and ducked into the first space between two buildings.

            Someone owed me for a herd of cattle.

            Since the whole town was in an uproar, I stayed on back streets to the town livery, found my mare and led her to a small stable where a family kept their horses. The mare liked the company and went right to eating. I crawled into the hay loft and slept.

            After dark, I went to the bank and peeked in the window. A guard sat with a shotgun across his knees, a kerosene lamp, a stove, and a pot of coffee near him. He jumped at every sound.

            Next, the hotel. The back door suited me fine, the shape I was in. Register said Carter was in room 113. I signed for room 115: James Williams. A sleepy-looking man started to weave across to the desk from a deep chair near the stove. It was warm enough now, but he'd got in the habit in the winter, I reckoned. I waved him off.

            "I signed in. Fifty cents?" All I had was one of those gold coins from the Washington robbery, four years ago.

            "Yep, for that you get a bath if you want. Key's in the top drawer." He gave me change from a wallet and settled back into the chair.

            Quietly, so as not to disturb anyone, I went up to room 113 to call on Mr. Carter.

            He was out. I found an appointment book with C.D. on the cover, but it listed his purchases, as well as who he was meeting, so it was his. I wondered what the "D" stood for. The book showed he'd paid five a head for my cattle. Robbery. They were worth twenty dollars easily. That was the deal then: low price for stolen cows. I took the notebook.

            In my own room, I got a piece of paper and made a nice map of the inside of the bank, stuffed my bed with blankets, and went out the window to the porch roof. Once down, I walked to the livery at the opposite end of town. I kicked up a pile of hay under a wagon that sat in the middle of the yard, two new wheels on its front axle. Too bad. I lit the hay afire and eased into the shadows.

            When it got going good, people yelled and ran that way. The wagon was nice and dry. It made a fine fire.

            Behind the bank, I threw an empty barrel through a back window, tossed in the cattle buyer's notebook and my sketch and made a hobbling run back to my hotel. Up the back steps again, and down the hall.

            Sheriff Serpa and the buyer went to my room first, and it sounded as if they clubbed that stack of blankets pretty bad. It didn't complain, though. I was sitting in the back corner of the buyer's room while the sheriff and Carter talked for a couple of minutes outside his door. Carter came in alone.

            He took his coat off, tossed a gunbelt onto the bed, and was undoing his moneybelt when I cocked my gun. He whirled at the dark shape I made in a chair and reached for his gun belt.

            "You shouldn't. I shoot good, even in dim light."

            "Killdeere? You think you can get away with this?"

            "My cows were worth twenty a head. You owe me two thousand dollars. I'll take gold."

            "This is robbery. I paid for them once."

            "No, that was an attempted robbery. You bet five hundred dollars against two thousand you could steal my cows. You lost. Now give me two thousand, and I'll give you a bill of sale. Or I'll take the money from your dead body."

            He counted it out in gold coin. I wrote out a bill of sale. "Nice doing business with you," I said.

            Footsteps pounded up the stairs. "Carter!" We both knew Serpa's voice. "You thieving son of a bitch! You even left a map of the inside of the bank! You said all you wanted was Killdeere!"

            "So long, Carter," I said. "Hang well." And stepped out the window.

            There was no posse, not that night. I expected it, had made plans how to lose it, and was watching for it. I used a round-about way to the light-colored horse and headed into higher country, just in case.

            Toward dawn I slept, and rolled out at noon, stiffer than before. An hour later, I rode into the Burton ranch were Mike lived with his parents and four younger brothers and paid him for helping me on the drive. He rose to meet me. "I thought it was a bust when they took your cows."

            "I had a talk with that Carter, the buyer, about midnight," I said, looking innocent as anything, "gave him a bill of sale, and he paid me."

            Mike started chuckling and his daddy caught on, too. "You will hang, Billy, if they ever catch you. Wish I'd been there to see his face."

            "Mr. Burton, I'm not a mean man. I want to go straight, make something of myself. Really I do."

            "I believe you, Billy, but you've got the name and you can use that gun too well. You will, too, until the day they shoot you full of holes or hang you. And those of us who knew you well will feel real sad."

            "Thanks for caring. I reckon that I better head home now."

            Part of my upbringing was to not do what was expected on the trail. But I was hurting too badly in too many places to ride long. Still, it's always nice to see some country, so I took the direct route, off the road, into rocks and trees and over the mountain. The horses were thirsty and drank from a small spring about half way up. Then I washed my face and drank, too, and rode on down. We came to the ranch from the back way.

            It was quiet. Too quiet. I lived alone anytime the boys were off somewhere, robbing and so on, but there were sounds I knew and got used to. The sounds weren't. The mocking bird wasn't singing; the hawk that regularly checked the pasture where I kept my riding horse was not making his rounds; the birds we're named after weren't cleaning the pasture.

            I waited. Maybe it was just the boys home, staying low for some reason. Maybe not. We'd never been bothered here. But Nevada lawmen had never bothered us anywhere before.

            The dog came out of the barn at a run, headed for the house, then veered off and ran for the woods. No one yelled, no one chased him. I watched where he went. Sometimes he'd go meet Uncle Jake.

            Moments later, he came up to me. But he wasn't frisking, he was worried. I told him he was a good boy. I switched saddles to the gelding and freed the bay mare. She trotted down and into the barn and didn't come out. She should have checked her manger, then come out and gotten a drink. But she didn't.

            Half an hour later, a man came out onto the porch, leaned a rifle against the post, and walked into the front yard. Killdeere," he yelled. "Billy Killdeere, come down and talk." He turned, yelling it to the four winds.

            I knew him. Federal Marshal Danforth. He'd been with Bagly once when they talked to me through a closed door. That time he was sure I was inside, but didn't make an issue of it when I didn't answer. He didn't now, either.

            "Billy. You spent a gold coin from the robbery of a federal shipment in Washington state. I need to talk to you. Please, come in and talk. We know you're alone."

            What? Oh, the coin I'd used in the hotel. How the hell did he know that came from the Washington robbery? I didn't answer.

            "Sheriff Serpa in Dayton was a crook. We don't care that you killed him. It was probably self-defense. We need to talk about the gold."

            Killed Serpa? I backed up to the gelding. When a lawman talks to a Killdeere, he either has a hangman's rope in his hand or a gun.

            "It ain't no use, Mr. Danforth." The man who came out of the barn looked as old as the hills, and as knowing. "But we can backtrack the mare and find him."

            He could. Danforth nodded. I hit the saddle. Time to see some country. The dog hesitated. "Go home, boy," I said, and was gone from there.

            The dog decided to come with me and ran easily alongside. I headed up, into the high country. They hadn't seen me, and if I had my way, they wouldn't. We went over the mountain and at dusk came down to the road between the Burton ranch and Middlegate. No one had gotten close enough to hear, let alone see us.

            As I walked the gelding out onto the road, the dog whined, then growled. I ducked and kicked my horse. And a thousand guns went off.