Illustrations by Rob Davis, ?borrowed" from illustrations in Ian Watson's ROBIN HOOD: KING OF SHERWOOD.

I

The Bishop of Hereford danced. It was an absurd jig, capering around the immense tree that would henceforth be called the Bishop’s Oak1. Whenever he slowed down, Robin Hood hastened him with another smack on the backside with the flat of a sword. The Bishop’s attendants and guards watched helpless to intervene. They’d been brave enough when they’d spotted the half dozen ragged peasants gutting a deer at the side of the

1 The remnant of this famous oak, called the Bishop’s Tree Root, is found in Skelbrook Park near Wentbridge. road and ruthless in pursuing them into the bushes. They’d lost their taste for the hunt when the disguised outlaws had led them to the spot where two score of well-armed bandits waited with nocked arrows.2 The portly divine ran around the wide tree trunk until he was red in the face and gasping. Only when he was about to drop did Robin relent enough to let him stop. “Now you’ll have less energy to flog serving boys for spilling your cider,” the young outlaw told the Bishop. “But we’ll take your treasury off for you to save you the strain of carrying it.” The raid was done. Much the Miller’s Son and George a’Green fastened the servants’ arms behind their backs. Will Scathlock, who’d earned the name Scarlet the bloody way, divested the clergyman of his rings and chains. “The poor thank you for your donations,” Maid Marion assured the Bishop. “Next time don’t wait for an outlaw to force your Christian duty on you.” The Bishop looked like he wanted to make a rude and noisy answer, but he glanced at Robin Hood and held his peace. He didn’t want to dance again. “Ware!” called David of Doncaster, on lookout. The bandits of Sherwood were careful to set a watch. They were about to made a hasty departure into the greensward when David called all clear. “It’s Little John.” Robin patted the Bishop of Hertford on his cheek, thanked him again for his contribution, and set off down the road to meet his returning lieutenant. Marion fell into step beside her forest lord. “John went north to see how things lie now Baron de Puiset’s been deposed,” she remembered. “Is the Sheriff’s writ unchallenged now?” Up to last summer three powerful men had contested the control of England. Richard Lionheart had appointed two Justiciars to rule during his absence on crusade. Hugh de Puiset, Bishop of Durham and Earl of Northumberland had been displaced and demoted by his fellow Justiciar, Lord Chancellor William Longchamp – who had in turn been dispossessed by the scheming Prince John. The Sheriff of Nottingham, sour William de Vendenal, now had authority over the vast tracts of Yorkshire and Derbyshire as well as his own county. “The Sheriff won’t be unchallenged,” Robin promised his lady. “I’m easily bored.” The unmistakable figure of Little John came over the crest of the road. He was huge and sheepskin-clad, his seven-foot quarterstaff barely topping his shaggy head. Riccon Hazel and Gilbert Whitehand trailed behind him; and one other. Old Arthur a Bland recognised the lithe young woman with the streaming black hair. “Uh oh,” the wiry poacher breathed Marion glanced at Robin, then back to the maiden approaching with John of Hathersage. The stranger was clad in green velvet decorated with yellow ribbons. She walked confidently, assured and collected, and she carried a crook. “Clorinda, Queen of the Shepherdesses, I presume,” Marion said to Robin. “I think that’s her name, yes,” the young outlaw answered in casual tones. “I, er, met her once.” “I heard the ballad, Robin. ‘Met’ is a pretty tame word if everything Alan sings is

2 This opening summarises the ancient tale Robin Hood and the Bishop of Hertford, ballad number 144 in the 19th century collection English and Scottish Popular Ballads by Francis James Child. Version A of that popular ley concludes, “Robin Hood took the Bishop by the hand/And he caused the music to play/And he made the Bishop to dance in his boots/And glad he could so get away.” true.” Clorinda of the high peaks and hidden valleys, the outlaws had called her.3 “Alan a Dale should shut up,” said Robin with feeling. Little John approached with the lovely shepherdess. He looked sheepish. “Look who I found,” he ventured, trying to sound casual. “Hello, Clorinda,” Robin bade the maiden.

“Hello, Loxley. Or do I call you the king of Sherwood now?” “Rob’s fine,” Marion answered for the young outlaw. “Or Mud. Either name’s right.” The queen of the shepherdesses regarded the outlaw lady. “You must be Matilda.” “I must. My friends call me Marion.” The Queen of May didn’t extend that invitation to Clorinda. “Well, isn’t this nice?” Little John said nervously. “A nice meeting of old friends and new. Nice.” Scarlet intervened. “As great as it is to watch Rob squirm, could we do it back at camp? Those Bishop’s men will get loose from their ropes sometime and summon help. These awkward pauses will be a lot less funny when we’re dangling from gibbets.” “An excellent point,” Robin Hood agreed. “Clorinda, good to see you. Meet my heart’s love Marion. Marion, this is the shepherdess queen who made a man of me. Let’s all get some supper.”

*** The remorseless tide pulled back from the crumbling cliffs at last. When it was safe enough, Captain Aelstan of Osmondthorpe climbed the rope ladder down to the cove to see the damage.

3 In Child ballad 149, The Birth, Breeding, Valour, and Marriage of Robin Hood, one of the earliest ballads from before Marion enters the Robin Hood canon, our hero meets with the huntress Clorinda, Queen of the Shepherdesses, whom he weds. The old song describes her thus: “As that word was spoke, Clorinda came by; The queen of the shepherds was she; And her gown was of velvet as green as the grass, And her buskin did reach to her knee. Her gait it was graceful, her body was straight, And her countenance free from pride; A bow in her hand, and quiver and arrows Hung dangling by her sweet side. Her eye-brows were black, ay, and so was her hair, And her skin was as smooth as glass; Her visage spoke wisdom, and modesty too; Sets with Robin Hood such a lass!” “It’s brought t’whole entrance down,” said Mickle the foreman, gloomily. “No way to open that ‘un up again. We’ll need to tunnel in a bit along, happen up by t’ Gnipe Howe.” The Sheriff of Nottingham’s guard captain inspected the tumbled rockfall that had closed the tunnel into the sea-cliffs. Massive blocks of friable stone had completely blocked three months’ diligent digging. He spat and swore. “We’ll need new scaffolding and that,” Mickle went on. “T’ flood’s washed all away. And t’miners are refusing t’dig owt now after them lads and lasses were lost.” Captain Aelstan had been a handsome man once. That was before the fury of the York riots and the hot flames of the brazier where the mob had held his head. Now his face was a pink mass of scar tissue and purpled blisters, one burned eye blackened and sightless. He was not an enemy to cross. “They’ll work, by Mary, or I’ll slit the noses of every child in the camp! Aye, and take their ears if I have to!” Mickle nodded, satisfied. “That’d do it, most like. I’ll need the menfolk down here to get’t rig set up. We’ll need to drill some holes in’t back of yon hollow and drive a shaft that way. We’ll catch the jet layer about ten feet in, I reckons.” Aelstan had to be satisfied with that. The Sheriff wouldn’t like the delay, but even he must understand that the sea’s aggression could not be controlled. “There’ll be jet fragments all along this strand where the tide washed out the cave,” Mickle added. “We’d best have t’lasses walking this shore. They won’t want to step where their kinfolk drowned but we’ve plenty of whips.” The Captain nodded. “See to it. Maybe we can get back on quota before Lord de Vendenal gets here.” It would be better for everybody if they did. Mickle leaned down to the shingle strand and picked up a black pebble. He dropped it into Aelstan’s hand. “There y’go. That’s Whitby jet4 for you. Another half ton and you’re back on schedule.” Aelstan looked at the rounded stone in his palm. True jet was rare. It could be carved and shaped. When rubbed on porcelain it left a brown mark. It was sovereign against evil magic, popular for use in clerical jewellery and the mourning garb of princes. It was certainly worth the lives of a few worthless nobodies. “Set them to work, Mickle,” the Captain commanded. He pocketed the jet-stone. “Work them hard. There’s plenty more where they came from!”

***

All eyes were on Clorinda’s bosom. She dipped her fingers down into her cleavage and pulled out a tiny carved cross of Whitby jet. “This is what I’ve come to show you,” she told the outlaws. “Your boobies?” asked Much hopefully. Arthur a Blank swatted him across the ear.

4 180 million years ago, fallen Jurassic Monkey-Puzzle trees were compressed and fossilized into layers of the mineraloid the Greeks called lithos gagates, which became the French gaiet and the English jet. England’s great deposits, generally considered the best quality in the world, are along the sea cliffs of North Yorkshire around Whitby. The decorative black stone was valued in the Neolithic era and appears in many grave-barrow hordes. The value of Britannia’s jet deposits was one economic reason for Julius Caesar’s invasion. The Romans carved the “black amber” into pins, brooches, and religious talismans. Unsatisfied with beach-combing as a means of gathering jet they began the cliff-mining that continues to the present day. “This,” the shepherdess clarified, passing the little icon to Robin Hood. “It’s jet. Lignite. Black amber. It’s found in the cliffs of North Yorkshire and along the pebbly beaches. It’s valuable.” Tuck knew about the polished black stone. “Pliny the Elder5 mentions it,” he recalled. “He said kindling it drove off snakes and relieved constriction of the uterus. He wrote that it also discovers attempts to simulate virginity.” “How?” Little John asked, curiously. “We’ll deal with the fake virgins later,” Robin promised. “Right now I want to know why Clorinda’s come all this way to show us some jewellery. Cloe?” “Up in my part of the world, the high grassy North Riding moors, people have always picked jet up from the sea-shore below - beach-combing. If you know the trick of shaping this stuff for setting it in silver there’s a good living. That and scrimshaw6 are the local specialities.”

5 Gaius Plinius Secundus (A.D. 23–79), Roman author, naturalist, and natural philosopher, author or arguably the first encyclopaedia, Naturalis Historia.

6 Sculpture or engraving using the teeth or bones of whales. “But?” “But now the Lord High Sheriff has other ideas. There’s demand for jet on the continent, you see. There’s money to be made. The Sheriff’s reopened the old Roman cave- mines down at the cliff bottom. It’s difficult, dangerous work, crawling through the low tunnels gouged down through what they call the top jet dogger, a limestone layer that’s always just above the jet seam. Scarcely a day goes by without an accident, some crushed limb or a sudden death by pitfall or drowning.” “The Sheriff’s set men to work in his perilous jet mine?” Marion understood. Scarlet shrugged. “Labourers face dangerous tasks everywhere. I don’t see what this has to do with us.” “The Sheriff doesn’t send in men,” Clorinda answered. “Not when children can squirm into much smaller spaces. And he doesn’t use labourers. He uses slaves.” Robin’s head came up. Slavery was still legal in England under old Saxon law, but it rarely happened these days7. Serfs were tied to their master’s land, unable to leave or wed or own possessions without their lord’s permission, but even they had rights. Slaves had none. They were property, no more protected by law than a pig or a handcart. Their owner had the right to trade them, loan them, breed them, and kill them. “William de Vendenal is enslaving boys and girls to die in his jet mines,” Marion summarised. Her face was bleak and dangerous. Robin mirrored her expression. “We head north.”

***

The great forest of which Sherwood was the heart ran almost the whole length of England. It ended where the Yorkshire moors began, surrendering to league after league of turf-topped highland. Tiny villages nestled in steep river valleys, sheltered from the winds. Only hardy Northern sheep ranged across the desolate hills. Three riders came out of the treeline and looked over the undulating landscape. “That way,” Clorinda told Robin and Marion. “The old Roman road takes us down to the White Village. We’ll be able to find out there what’s happening along the coast at the Sheriff’s mine.” “I’m very keen to know,” the young outlaw confessed. “Lead on, Cloe.” The queen of the shepherdesses turned to Marion. “You didn’t have to ride with us, you know. You can trust me with Robin.” “I know that,” the lady of Sherwood replied. “But I can’t trust Robin to rein in his tendency to hatch very stupid schemes and plans.” “You think you’re going to stop him from dangerous adventures?” “I think I’m going to be with him when he has them.” Clorinda snorted and spurred her horse forward. Robin reached across and squeezed Marion’s hand. “You really don’t need to worry about me and the shepherdess,” he promised. “It was a long time ago. Those tavern-songs are old. Before you filled my world.” “I’m not worried.” The red-haired beauty winked at him. “By now I have lots more verses than she has.” They rode after Clorinda down the steep trail to one of the tiny hamlets between the

7 The Domesday Book census of 1086 recorded more than a tenth of England's population as slaves. As Norman feudal customs were enforced slaves became rarer, replaced by the villeins or serfs that made up eighty percent of the population by the end of the 12th century. Slavery remained legal in England until the 1833 Slavery Abolition Act. rolling hills. Then their good mood evaporated. “What happened here?” Marion asked. The village was deserted. The thatch was gone from most of the cottages, whipped away by the fierce coastal winds. Already the wattle-and-daub dwellings were crumbling back to mere mud and sticks. The stone-built chapel stood empty and desolate. “This was Egton,” the shepherdess said. “It defaulted on its taxes.” Robin looked at the sad remnants of the weed-choked settlement. “And then?” “And then Lord de Vendenal bought up the debt. And he invoked the old law.” Marion had been brought up in a noble house. She knew judicial process. “Slavery for debt? Is that still legal?” “It is with the consent of the manor’s lord and of the creditor – and with permission from the Lord High Sheriff.” Robin bunched his fists. “This is not just. This is not right.” “I could ride you round half a dozen deserted villages like this, maybe more,” Clorinda warned him. “The incomes from marginal estates like this one are far less than the profits from exporting jet to France and Holland.” “De Vendenal is nothing if not a shrewd businessman,” Marion scowled. “Let’s show him the hidden costs of his enterprise,” suggested Robin in the Hood.

***

“Pirates. They’re now’t but by-the-Lady pirates,” the ruddy fisherman in the seafront tavern complained to Robin, Marion, and Clorinda. He nursed his mug of warmed sour ale and glared out to sea from under his bushy eyebrows. “They calls themselves king’s marines, but they comes ashore with swords and bows whenever they please to take whatever they wants. Livestock, beer, sometimes a maid. We can’t stop ‘em.” “These are the men on the ship that collects the jet?” Marion checked. “Aye. They say as they’re lawful sailors and they gather necessaries in the king’s name by right. But I’d heard t’ Lionheart was overseas, in the Holy Land by all accounts, a- fighting of the heathen. What’s his mariners want to be coming here disturbing our peace for?” “Richard’s not in Palestine any more,” Robin reported. “They’re saying in London and York that he took ship home when he heard of Prince John’s treacheries. But he was shipwrecked, then captured by the Duke of Austria for ransom.” Clorinda wasn’t interested in high politics. “No concern of ours what the great and mighty do. Richard’s no better than John. The whole lot of ‘em can jump off Fylingthorpe cliffs and crash on the rocks below!” “It does matter,” Marion argued. “Richard’s ransom is set at sixty thousand pounds, three times the taxes of England for a whole year. His mother Queen Eleanor is chivvying the chancellery for new levies of scutage and carucage8 and to squeeze the church for a quarter of its wealth to set him free – and Eleanor’s a hard woman to ignore. But taxes on the rich mean more taxes on the poor.” “So Sheriff de Vendenal’s mining Whitby jet to pay for Richard’s return?” the shepherdess asked, failing to hide her contempt and anger at the aristocracy’s tax farming. Robin shook his head. “De Vendenal’s pinned his advancement on Weaselly John. Richard’s return would wreck him. There’s gossip though that Lackland and the King of France have offered a different fee to Lionheart’s captives, £40,000 to keep him locked

8 A tax in lieu of rendering feudal military service and a tax on farmed land. away. I bet that’s why the Sheriff’s chasing money.” The old fisher drained his mug. “Kings and princes and Sheriffs and all that, they don’t mean a thing t’me. But pirates robbing my catch, raiding my boat, carrying off our Dorrie, that’s too much. Someone should do something about it, they should!” Robin looked from Marion to Clorinda and saw the expectant expression on both their faces. “All right!” he surrendered. “I volunteer!”

***

Captain Aelstan stood at the water’s edge and spoke with Captain Makebliss as the tide turned. They watched the ragged men and women who dug the top jet dogger drag their naked grazed children out of the mine tunnel before the waters washed back in. “You’ve started a new hole,” the sea-captain noted to de Vendenal’s scarred guard officer. “The waves took the last one,” Aelstan replied. “The mine engineer was too greedy and skimped on the support columns. Mickle flogged him.” “Will you meet your targets?” “We have to. I’ve got the slaves working night and day now, whenever the water’s low enough. Four full teams. It’ll kill a few more than otherwise, but we can always get more.” Makebliss grinned. His teeth were brown and rotten. “Get some more pretty ones. They sell well in Harfleur and Normandy. There’s a demand.” The captain fingered a silver chain of jet beads at his neck. The Sheriff didn’t need to know about Aelstan’s lucrative sidelines. A disfigured guard captain had to plan his own retirement. “We’ll get back to that after we’ve sorted out production problems. Lord de Vendenal’s coming to check up on the work. He’ll want to get the jet shipment away to London as soon as he’s inspected it.” A rough palisade at the top of the cliff enclosed the work-barracks of the captives, with a guarded strong-hut to store the precious black stone itself. When the time came the chests would be lowered by rope to the shore and loaded into Makebliss’ two-masted warboat. From there it was an easy sail down the east coast of England to the Thames and London. The two captains watched as the last of the children was hauled out of the working. A pair of ruthless soldiers checked the slaves for hidden jet and seemed to enjoy doing it. The final child was a boy no more than six or seven. He bled where he’d grazed all down his left side squeezing into the tight seam cleft. His desperate mother set up a wail before Mickle the Overseer brought his crop down on her back to silence her. “I’ll get my ship ready,” Captain Makebliss decided. “It’d be just like de Vendenal to decide to inspect it.” That would mean casting the stolen girls overboard, but it was no hardship. All the fishing villages could do if the pirates took more prizes was complain – to the Sheriff! “It’s best to keep on the Lord Sheriff’s good side,” Aelstan agreed. “He can be creative when people fail him.” A shout came from the top of the cliff. Somebody hailed the guard captain, beckoning him up the rope ladder. “What is it?” Aelstan shouted through cupped hands. When the guardsman above yelled a reply the Captain winced. “Z’ounds!9 Speak of the devil! What the hell’s de Vendenal doing here two days early?” He hastened to the ropes so he could be up top to greet his employer. “Be sure you’re ready, Makebliss. The Sheriff’s come. Nothing can must wrong!”

Robin joined Marion and Clorinda atop the Fylingthorpe cliffs. He took off the disgusting floppy-brimmed had he’d disguised himself with and span it over the edge so the wind took it to fly off with the gulls. “You weren’t caught then,” Marion noted. “No,” Robin told her with a mock apologetic expression. “Luckily, I’m me. I went into the slave camp, delivered the beer to the soldiers’ mess, got a look round, then headed back to the warm embrace of my beloved.” He glanced at Clorinda. “Er, Marion, that is,” he added apologetically. The dark-tressed shepherdess snorted. “Still with a high opinion of yourself, Loxley. There’s other men.” “But none of them could creep into that compound, spy out the land, work out a plan to save all the slaves and make the Sheriff cry himself to sleep, and still be back in time to enjoy the view of this fabulous sunset with the two fairest maidens in the land!” “If you feel the need to throw him off the cliff I won’t object,” Marion told Clorinda. “No. He’s yours now,” relied the shepherdess. “You should do it.” Maid Marion looked as if she was considering it. “While you were off playing dress-up I went to the Abbey,” she reported. “I spoke to the Abbot, asked him what he was doing about the Sheriff’s nasty scheme at Gnipe Howe.” “Doing something would require him to stand up,” Clorinda snorted. “He’s far too fat for that!” “The Abbey’s lands border on some of the royal estates de Vendenal controls. I got the impression he was afraid of trouble from his neighbour. He wasn’t about to upset the Sheriff or the Prince, even with a war-boat full of raiders robbing his settlements in the king’s name.” Marion grimaced to indicate her opinion of the cleric. “You should have brought your men with you, Loxley,” Clorinda told Robin. “What can three of us do against a pirate ship and Captain Aelstan’s thugs?” “Did I mention I met the Sheriff as well?” Robin added casually. “What?” Marion cried out. “De Vendenal’s here? Since when?” “Since about an hour ago. With an extra forty guardsmen, because otherwise rescuing sixty-odd exhausted injured prisoners and four chests of jet would be too easy.” “Can you shoot him?” Clorinda wondered. She knew how good a marksman Robin was. “Not without reprisals that would see half the villages of Nottinghamshire burned. If it was as simple as putting an arrow through de Vendenal’s throat he’d have been in his grave years ago.”

9 A contraction of “God’s wounds”, a medieval profanity. Marion agreed. “We just have to settle for making the Sheriff wish he were dead.” The sun sank down behind the Yorkshire hills. The sea turned grey. Three quarters of a mile up the coast torches flared where the slaves still laboured to dig the Sheriff’s jet. “So what’s the stupid dangerous scheme going to be this time?” Maid Marion asked the outlaw lord. “Well, from what I’ve seen and Clorinda’s heard, the Sheriff of Nottingham has a hundred or so guards with ugly Aelstan, an impenetrable stockade, one of the king’s war galleys with a ruthless cut-throat crew, threescore battered peasants in dire straits, and four boxes of jet to keep the Lionheart locked away for a long time. I’ve got two lovely wenches and a longbow.” Robin Hood grinned. “Isn’t it obvious what we should do?”

II

Makebliss’ first mate was effusive about the wenches. “Two of ‘em, Cap’n, and each as lovely as an angel. The one Saxon-haired and dainty, the other black as a raven and ample as you please. They were down at the harbour in the White Village10 under the abbey, seeking a boat to take them and a small chest along to Scarborough Castle.” The Captain was intrigued. “To Scarborough? Why? Of what quality were these vixens? What men attended them?” “No companions at all. Alone, they were, with a sealed box the size of a Bible. Like to be a jewel casket, I thought. The red minx, she spoke like a Norman noble. The other was more local, but she bore herself well. A lady and her maid perhaps, separated from their lord and seeking passage to safety.” “Did they appeal to the Abbot?” “No, Cap’n. They were asking amongst the fishermen, promising silver for their passage.” Makebliss considered his options. De Vendenal’s caskets were ready to move once the tide reached its outer range. In the half-hour of calm the warship would beach on the shingle bank, load the chests, and be gone before the waters turned to push it hard onto the shore. But that was four hours off yet - time enough before that to consider another source of profit. “They might be worth something, the wenches and their box,” Captain Makebliss mused. “If naught else they’d brighten the sailing to London. Even if there’s no ransom to be had they’ll still fetch a price in Harfleur.” “One of the fishers took them out in his single-mast herring boat,” the first mate told. “The way those things move we could overhaul it in an hour and be back to catch the tide.” Makebliss looked at the men on his twin-masted warship. Two dozen sea-hardened sailors could defeat any resistance a frightened fisherman could make. They had before. “Bring her around,” the Captain ordered. “Make for the fair wenches, best speed!”

***

10 This is an Anglicised version of the Old Norse Hweitebi, from whence the name Whitby derives. The prominent ruins of the Abbey still stand on the high cliffs above the town and are well worth a visit. The Abbey, its graveyard, and the winding steps up to it are perhaps best known in popular fiction for their appearance in Bram Stoker’s Dracula. The fisherman laughed at Robin. The people’s champion hopped on one leg and tried to untangle his boot from the unexpected knot he’d made of the line he was supposed to be hauling. The boat rocked and the young outlaw sat down heavily, narrowly avoiding being spilled into the sea. “I thought Robin i’ th’ Hood was never caught?” Marion giggled as Robin rolled in the belly of the fishing boat and slithered on the detritus of the morning’s catch. A helpful sailor unhooked Robin’s leg with an easy twist of the rope. “Tha’ll ne’er be a seaman, lad,” the fisherman warned. “If I were thee I’d avoid owt much bigger than a puddle.” “I have other talents,” the forest lord protested. “I’m a remarkable lover, for example!” The boat caught some chop again, sliding him back into the slippery fish pile. “You’d have to be pretty damn brilliant at it to bring your average back up after demonstrating your seamanship,” Marion commented. Robin looked at her challengingly. “And?” Clorinda interrupted the banter. “Is that a ship over there?” The fishermen’s’ attention had been on dragging up their nets and on Robin’s rope handling. At the shepherdess’ words they all turned to look where she was pointing. “It’s them!” the master-fisher spat. He swore, then apologised for it to the ladies. “Get them nets in fast, boys! Weight the anchor and let’s be gone. We don’t want to let them buggers catch us again.” Robin, Marion, and Clorinda said nothing. It was exactly what they were wanting. The fishermen lugged the half-full hemp nets into the boat. The little skiff rocked alarmingly. Robin didn’t try to help them. They thanked him for that. Marion kept an eye on the approaching vessel. “So that’s the war-ship. It’s designed to be small and fast – a courier, probably. Ideal to transport small valuable cargo like a few chests of gems.” “Those are the reavers who’ve been preying on the coast,” Clorinda reported. “It’s the Sheriff’s job to stop men like that, not commission them.” The craft was closing fast. It had more sail and the wind was behind it. “Lift t’sheet and make for land, lads!” the master-fisher called. He sounded tense but he kept his head. “Break out oars an’ all.” He looked worriedly at the two women at the stern, imagining their fate at the pirates’ hands. The two ladies seemed unconcerned. Marion reached under the rear bench and brought out two long cloth-wrapped bundles. She passed them to Robin and Clorinda, who unwrapped them to reveal English longbows. The chest contained no treasure but broad- headed arrows. “What’s this?” demanded the master-fisher. “Tha can’t fight! That’s a war-ship. There’ll be a score of men wi’ bows on board.” “Perhaps,” said Robin Hood, stringing his weapon. “They’ve got men and bows. We’ve got an archer.” “Two,” Clorinda corrected him, preparing her own yew-bow. “Or have you forgotten those Scots raiders we took down in our reckless youth?” “Wait,” said Marion. “I thought this was his reckless youth?” The warship hove closer, cutting across the fishing smack’s course, stealing its wind. “They’re gonna catch us!” the master-fisher warned. “I hope so,” replied Robin Hood. “I really want to talk to them.” When the ship was two hundred yards distant he drew his bow and loosed his first red-fletched arrow. The shot was at long range, in a sea breeze, on a pitching deck. It curved in a high parabola over the North Sea and embedded itself in the arm of the war-boat’s pilot. “Show off,” said Clorinda. “That wasn’t showing off,” Robin told her. “This is showing off.” He loosed a second shaft, putting it through the throat of the lookout who was warning the warship of the attack. “They’ll kill us for this!” the master-fisher fretted. “Bring us alongside them, captain,” Marion told him. “Whitby wanted rid of the pirates? This is the time to do it.” Robin fired again, and again. Each shot took down another sailor. Clorinda joined in as the range closed. When the men on the war-ship pulled out their own bows Robin targeted them as a priority. A few enemy arrows splashed into the water around the fishing ship. One embedded itself in the port hull. Robin allowed the marauders no time to aim. He kept them scared. “They’ll run soon,” Marion judged. “They never expected a fight and they’ve taken serious losses.” She’d counted at least eight men down, probably several more injured. All the sea-marauders were taking shelter behind the ship’s wooden walls now. She finished knotting a cord onto an arrow that was longer and thicker than the regular ones Robin was dropping into the warship – Marion had no problem with the knots but didn’t distract the young outlaw to point it out just then – and passed the shaft to the archer. Robin checked the steel-tipped missile. Its broad head was designed to punch through a knight’s armour then stick there, its wide triangle shape making it difficult to dislodge without shredding the flesh it had penetrated. It would be equally effective lodged through a war-boat’s side. “They’re turning!” the master-fisher saw. The men aboard the skiff had gone from terror to amazement to a wild elation as their persecutors had sailed into a rain of death. “They’re heaving off!” “Not without us, they’re not,” said Robin determinedly. He aimed the special arrow low above the waterline and released the hundred and eighty pound pressure on his bowstring. The missile sped almost too fast for the eye to follow and slammed through two inches of hardwood like it was nothing. Marion passed the other end of the line to the fishermen. “Secure this well,” she ordered. “We don’t want them getting away.” One of the enemy sailors tried to lean over the side of his hull to sever the line. Clorinda got him. “Prepare for them to try and board us next,” Robin warned. “That’s what I’d try.” Captain Makebliss had the same idea. The ship veered in, looming close to the fishing vessel. Robin kept the enemy sailors ducking for cover as the distance closed. Marion unpacked her flint and tinderbox and a flask of black sticky oil. With special care because shipboard fire was deadly she struck a spark and ignited a small lamp. “They’re coming!” the master-fisher shouted, alarmed again. He’d seen many of the mariners fall but the warship still steered so there must be more. Marion passed the lamp and the remainder of the flask to Robin. “Don’t even try to be careful,” she sighed. “Just be… you.” Robin blew her a kiss. As the warship loomed beside the fishing boat he surprised the pirates by jumping up and boarding it. Captain Makebliss already had a cudgel ready to invade the skiff. He came at Robin and got a faceful of black oil as Robin shattered the flask on him. The heavy tar spilled down onto deck and formed a pool. Robin held up the lantern he’d brought. “I’m told fire’s very bad on a ship,” he advised the surviving raiders. “If anything happens to me I’ll be dropping this light right onto that oil. And your captain’s soaked in the stuff.” Clorinda and Marion scrambled aboard. The surprised fishermen found the courage to follow them. The five sailors who’d survived the archer’s onslaught well enough to still fight suddenly found they’d been beaten by a lone outlaw and two women.11 The master-fisher took control of the warboat. Marion opened the rear cabin and released the three girls who’d been stolen away for Harfleur. Robin had his back to Makebliss. Seeing an opportunity, the marauder captain leaped at the young outlaw from behind. That was what Robin had hoped for. He whirled round and brought his horn-tipped longbow up into Makebliss’ nose. There was a crack of cartilage and the captain fell down heavily in the gunwale. Makebliss clutched his bloody face, screeching. The master-fisher kicked him in the ribs. “You’re no sailor but you’re a trueborn archer, lad,” the fisherman told Robin. “I’ve ne’er heard tell of one man catching a pirate warship wi’ naught but a quiver of arrows.” Even Clorinda was surprised. “Does he do that often now?” she whispered to Marion. “Stopping him from doing these things, that’s the hard part,” the lady of Sherwood replied.

***

Robin Hood wasn’t a bloodthirsty killer. Even men who’d enslaved children and sold captives to lifetimes of bondage overseas got the chance to surrender. The nine wounded men on the captured warship were tended, despite the fishermen’s willingness to toss them overboard with the corpses of their fellows. Marion insisted no harm came to the prisoners. “They’re to be tried by your elders in the old fashion,” the queen of Sherwood instructed. “Let their accusers come forward and a jury decide their fates.” It was hard for the half-dozen Whitby fisherfolk to pilot the prize Robin had won and their own vessel back to shore. Robin conscripted three of the prisoners to help and stood at the prow with his bow ready in case they tried to fight. Clorinda was surprised when the outlaw ordered the boat be beached in an empty bay a few miles south of the natural harbour at Whitby. “There’s nothing in this cove, and we’re near the Sheriff’s mine,” she objected. “I wasn’t sure what we’d find here,” Robin told the shepherdess, “so I arranged for some aid.” At the shore, Robin winded a horn. An answering blast came from somewhere in the foothills, and within five minutes a dozen outlaws in Lincoln green were assembled at the strand. “Little John,” Clorinda said, recognising the giant by his size alone. She waved at him. The queen of the shepherdesses had always liked the shepherd from Hathersage. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d brought your men up here?”

11 These events echo the ancient ballad The Noble Fisherman, or Robin Hood’s Preferment, collected as Child ballad 148. Robin looked sheepish. “Honestly? I wasn’t that sure you were telling me the truth about everything until our fight today with the pirates. You didn’t mention that Egton was where you come from, for example.” Clorinda was shocked. “How did you know…?” “There was a time when I wanted to know everything about you. I’m a smart lad. I asked folk. But if the Sheriff has all the people of Egton enslaved then he probably has kin of yours. He might have sent you to lead me into a trap. It’s the sort of thing he does. Anyone would try to save their parents, brothers, sisters…” “Husband,” said Clorinda. She managed a faint smile. “Did you think you’d ruined me for other men, Loxley?” “Does de Vendenal know he’s got such good hostages?” Marion wondered. “De Vendenal’s not been here before today,” the shepherdess pointed out. “Now he is.” “And he’s sharp,” Robin admitted with a frown. “We’d better hurry before he’s got time to work out I’m here.” Little John splashed out to meet them, with Scarlet, Tuck, Alan a Dale and the others. “You’ve never stolen a whole ship before, Rob,” the big man noted. “Where are you going to keep it? It won’t really fit in the little beck beside the Major Oak.12” “I expect I’ll give it to the poor,” Robin laughed. He embraced the giant. “There’s some bad men on board. Do you think you could keep them occupied while we do clever things, then leave them for the elders of Whitby to try and punish afterwards?” Will Scarlet moved forward, grim as ever. “I’ll see to them,” he promised. “Why do you need a ship, exactly?” Alan a Dale ventured. “Not that I mind. There’s lots of things will rhyme with ship when I come to make a ballad of this.” He thought a moment then looked less certain. “Drip, dip, flip, nip, tip, snip, blip… hmm, perhaps you could stick to horses. They have much less ominous rhymes.” “We need to get this ship back out to sea with the master-fisher’s help,” Robin proclaimed. “Captain Makebliss tells me its time to load the Sheriff’s jet chests aboard and when his nosebleed stops he’s volunteered to help us. Well, he’s volunteered not to be tossed overboard in a weighted fishing net, which is the next best thing!” “We can’t just sail up to the Sheriff’s stockade and pick up the treasure, Robin,” Friar Tuck objected. “Captain Aelstan knows us. Even with this pirate pretending he’s not got a dagger at his back we couldn’t fool Aelstan. And there’s word that the Sheriff’s there too. Sorry, lad, but he won’t fall for it.” “I agree,” Robin admitted. “That’s why there needs to be a better, bigger plan!”

***

William de Vendenal had a glare that could freeze water. The Lord High Sheriff was both powerful and competent, a dangerous combination. Fools learned quickly that he was not a man to fail or deceive. Now that gimlet stare was turned on Clorinda of Egton. “Robin Hood?” de Vendenal repeated her words. “Robin Hood is here?” “Yes,” agreed the queen of the shepherdesses. “Nearby.” “To seek my jet?”

12 Many folk stories and local tradition place the outlaw’s hideout at a huge oak tree near Edwinstowe in Nottinghamshire. The nearby stream is narrow enough to jump and shallow enough to paddle. “Of course. You know Robin. Those chests must be worth a thousand pounds or more.” “And you come to betray him to me from a sense of public duty?” Clorinda shook her head. She tried not to falter. She knew the Sheriff was a frightening man. She’d not anticipated how hard it to keep calm was under his attentive gaze. “I want something. A reward. I can tell you where to find Loxley, but it’s for a price.” Captain Aelstan shifted to stand behind the shepherdess. “I can have the truth out of her in two hours, my lord,” he promised. “Less, if she’s keen to keep her looks.” “And Hood’ll be gone in half an hour,” Clorinda warned scornfully. “What reward?” de Vendenal asked her. “It is rare that any of Hood’s people try to coin him. He seems to inspire universal folly in his minions.” “I’m not one of his merry men,” Clorinda answered. She smoothed her hands down her ample curves. “You can see that plain. What I was to him once… well, he’s with the Maid Marion now. And I’ve a man of my own.” “Your name?” “Clorinda.” De Vendenal had studied his enemy. He’d heard the tavern song. “You’re the so called shepherd queen.” The dark-tressed woman shrugged. “With my dogs and a crook I can make my flock do anything. I can shear a sheep in less than a minute. I can charm the lambs out of ewes. But there’s some wolves I can’t fight.” De Vendenal was fast. The maid spoke bad Norman French with a local accent. “Not money, the reward you seek,” he discerned. “A man of Egton, perhaps? A lover? A husband?” “Aye. Give me my man, free and safe, and I’ll give you Robin of Loxley.” Aelstan was sceptical. “How do you know where the wolfshead is? Why should we trust you?” “I know his location because I fetched him here. He’s planning to take your treasure and free your captives because I asked him to. But his mad plans won’t work.” The dark- tressed shepherdess shook her head. “I knew all along the only way to free my love would be to trade you Robin Hood. So I brought him for you, far from Sherwood’s safety. Let fair Lady Marion save Loxley if she can. I’ll see my husband free.” William de Vendenal stroked his pointed beard and considered. “If what you say is true then it’s a chance we must not miss. Prince John will be much consoled at the hanging and quartering of that particular rebel and my life will be considerably bettered. If you lie, it’s your belly we’ll slice open and draw out your innards while you still live.” Clorinda paled. “Who’s your man?” de Vendenal demanded. “I’ll tell you when Hood’s caught and the bargain’s done,” the shepherdess answered. “I’ll not let you threaten my love to loosen my tongue.” The Sheriff had thought the gambit worth the attempt, but he was willing to make the deal. “You have a bargain, wench. But you’ll remain here until Hood’s caught or slain.” He turned to the camp overseer. “Lock her with the jet chests, Mickle. There’s nowhere more secure. See she’s fettered too, and a pair of incorruptible guards on the door.” To Clorinda he said, “You’ll tell Captain Aelstan where to find the wolfshead. Be precise. Your life depends upon it.” The shepherdess blinked back tears she hadn’t expected and confessed. “Five miles south there’s a small bay. There’s a sea-cave there. That’s where Loxley’s waiting for me.” She hung her head. “God forgive me for selling him to his death.”

III

The cave was unoccupied; but not empty. Captain Aelstan liked to report the obvious. “He’s not here. The wench lied!” The Sheriff of Nottingham was sharper. “He’s not here now, but he was. And he wasn’t alone. Look at the bedrolls stowed here. There are, what, fifty or sixty of them? The shepherdess lass lied, yes, but she lied by omitting the fact that Hood was here with the greater part of his wolfsheads.” Aelstan looked around to check the forty men they’d brought with them were still there. Robin Hood hadn’t spirited them away. “These fire pits are still warm,” de Vendenal added. “Hood and his fanatics can’t have been gone long. But why…?” The Sheriff looked up suddenly then whirled to one of his squires. “You! Ride back to camp. Warn Mickle that the girl’s information was a ruse to draw our forces away from the stockade. Tell them there are three-score outlaws, expert archers all, loose somewhere in the countryside. He’s to seal the gates, turn out every man to watch, and prepare for Hood’s deceit or overwhelming force.” The squire raced for his horse and galloped away. De Vendenal pointed to two more men. “You and you. Go after him. Ride separately. Hope Hood isn’t able to kill all of you en route. Aelstan, assemble the column. We’ll head back quickly but in good order. Send out screen riders to avoid unfortunate ambushes.” “Yes, my lord! But no amount of outlaws could overcome the stockade without terrible losses.” “Hood’s clever. There’ll be a trick.” The Sheriff thought hard. “What deliveries have you received of late?” “Captain Makebliss brought us supplies yesterday. And there were some barrels of ale from the brewer of Briggswath.” “The drayman! Was he known to anyone?” Aelstan shrugged. “I don’t know. Mickle sees to the stores. I don’t see…” De Vendenal jabbed a finger at another rider. “Back to Gnipe Howe,” he ordered. “Tell them not to drink the beer. Pour it away. Hood has a liking for drugging it with poppy syrup to quieten guards.” Aelstan gasped. “You don’t think he intends to attack the camp while our men are disabled.” “I think Hood’s got more wits than everybody at Gnipe Howe put together, and that includes you! We need to get back at once so that…” De Vendenal’s explanation was cut short as an arrow skimmed past his ear and embedded itself on his saddle. Aelstan looked up at the archer on the cliff above. The outlaw in Lincoln Green waved a feathered cap down at the soldiers. “Robin Hood!” the guard captain recognised. “After him!” The Sheriff made the order more specific. “Six mounted men up there after him. Six more range out looking for the rest of his wolfshead scum. Return in half an hour to report. Six form on me. Rest of you line up and make for camp. Now!” Aelstan appointed himself at the head of the squad chasing Hood. The horsemen galloped up the winding channel where a shallow beck trickled out into the sea, tracking back towards the high promontory from where the archer fired. One horseman grunted and fell as the outlaw’s arrow took him in the arm. “Faster!” Aelstan called bending low over his horse to offer a smaller target. “Spread out!” Another arrow toppled another rider. But then misfortune struck the young outlaw. His bowstring snapped loose! Aelstan spurred his horse up the slope. Hood was only two hundred yards off now. The outlaw chose not to try and restring his bow with five horsemen closing on him. He ran to his own horse, a sleek chestnut borrowed from some unsuspecting manor, and rode away. Aelstan gave chase. His scarred mouth twisted into a gory grin. Hood might be the better archer; Aelstan of Osmondthorpe was the better rider. The guard captain would wager Hood’s life on it.

***

Two messengers made it to the mining camp. The others fell to outlaw arrows. Mickle the overseer wasn’t happy at the prospect of a bandit siege. With forty men away with the Sheriff he had only sixty guards remaining to protect the jet and keep watch on the slaves who laboured in the cavern below. Even reducing the watch on the miners to a bare minimum left him with less guards than he’d have liked to man the walls. When the news came that the ale might be poisoned it Mickle himself that took an axe and stove in the barrels. A disheartened groan came from the soldiers. They’d have been even unhappier to know that there was nothing wrong with the beer. A horn sounded away to the south. Replies echoed from west and north. Sixty wolfsheads, the Sheriff’s squire had said. Sixty of the notorious Sherwood bandits, each a deadly shot, each able to rain down flight after flight of arrows into the rough compound. The crude huts and canvas dwellings would not survive if the arrows were lit ablaze. There was a garrison at Scarborough, but that was fifteen miles away. Help could not come in time. But then the tide reached its furthest ebb and the yellow-and-white sails of the royal warship appeared around the headland. Mickle remembered that Captain Makebliss was coming to collect the treasure. The horns sounded again, nearer. There was no sign of the sheriff’s return. The overseer had to make a decision. “Get the chests out of the strong-hut,” he commanded. “They’re to be strapped and lowered down to the strand. Tell Makebliss he can load them but he’s not to leave with them till lord de Vendenal’s inspected them again – unless there’s an outlaw attack.” The warship pulled up onto the shingle beach in its customary harbour. Sailors jumped off and beached it. Looking down from the clifftop, Mickle saw Makebliss and a couple of men move over to speak to the sergeant who was guarding the slaves. Mickle found he was sweating. He watched each of the four treasure boxes be lowered down the cliff and hardly dared breath until they were safely received at the bottom. A couple of Makebliss’ men climbed the long twisting rope ladder up into the compound to speak with him. “Captain Makebliss’ compliments,” said one of them, “and he says if you’re shifting the goods to his ship for safety you’d best empty the wench from the strong-hut as well.” “He’s sent us to fetch her,” said the other in blunter terms. It made sense to Mickle. He was more concerned at the smoke that was now rising not far from the camp. The sailors dragged Clorinda from her prison and lowered the shackled shepherdess down the cliff face after the strongboxes. “You’d better go too,” the politer sailor suggested to the overseer. “You’ll want to keep an eye on the Sheriff’s treasure.” Mickle decided it might be best to be closer to the ship in case the outlaws came. He handed over defence of the camp to a competent sergeant and accompanied Alan a Dale and Will Scarlet down to the strand.

***

Robin kicked his heels into his chestnut’s sides to keep it moving. The horse was tiring as it tore along the incline. Aelstan and his riders were staying close, less than a hundred yards behind. The young outlaw followed the natural curve of the land, letting his mount choose its own path, concerned more with speed than direction. His job was to keep Aelstan busy and to convince the Sheriff that outlaws intended to assault his camp. It was the terrain that betrayed him. The Yorkshire sea cliffs had unexpected gullies and sudden drops. Robin’s horse had the sense to shy away from a steep fall it couldn’t survive, veering sharply left at ninety degrees to its precious course. That allowed the pursuing Sheriff’s men to cut a corner and close the distance. Robin pushed his horse on, back towards the Fylingthorpe cliffs, knowing his tired steed was nearing its limits. He pulled out his bow and refastened the string he’d deliberately released earlier. Stringing a new cord at the gallop would have been impossible; reattaching the loose end of a good catgut thread was only very difficult. The nearest rider was close now, less than fifty yards away. Robin twisted in his seat, holding his bow horizontally. He couldn’t draw the string fully back, but at that range he didn’t need to. The arrow caught his pursuer in the belly. Four horsemen remained to chase him. One tried to fire back from the saddle. It was a mistake. He lost his balance, dropped his shortbow, then fell from his horse to roll heavily on the turf. Aelstan and the remaining pair continued to close in. Robin waited until the riders were sure he was making for Fylingthorpe then veered suddenly left towards a narrow track down into a stand of woodland. Once there he could find cover and fend off horsemen as he pleased. On the bridle-road below, the Sheriff of Nottingham rode out with another six horsemen. Robin cursed himself. De Vendenal was clever. The Sheriff had anticipated Robin’s escape plan, had ignored the ruse that would have sent him scurrying back to the mine, and had closed off the young outlaw’s best line of escape. Now fresh riders galloped up from the track he’d hoped would be his getaway. Robin shot again, taking down another of Aelstan’s original horsemen. The last of them pushed forward, no more than a horse’s length behind the outlaw as they climbed the hill again towards the sea. Aelstan looked ahead and saw the cliff edge. In an inspired moment he decided to cut right and block Robin from slipping away along the clifftop path. The other rider drew out a boot knife and held it by the blade, ready to throw. Robin turned and fired again. The arrow missed the guard but injured his horse. The creature bucked, spilling his master. Robin spurred his own blown ride onward. He’d lost track of Aelstan. Suddenly the guard captain barrelled his own horse into Robin’s mount, side to side. Both horses reeled then fell, tumbling their riders to the turf. Robin rolled as he landed, but the breath was knocked out of him. His bow skittered away out of reach. By the time he’d scrambled to his feet Captain Aelstan was already running at him, naked sword in hand. Robin pulled his own blade, a new longsword liberated from a proud knight on the Leicester road. He barely had time to get it up before Aelstan’s blade sparked off it. The Sheriff’s squad topped the ridge and saw the outlaw and the guard captain fighting. “Hold back!” Aelstan shouted to them. His burn-scarred face was livid with rage and hate. “Let me take him! Robin Hood is mine!”

***

Mickle hadn’t expected a woman at the mine; at least not a woman wearing more than rags or doing more than cringing or wailing. He certainly hadn’t expected her to turn on him with incandescent fury. “What have you done to these people? How could you do it? What kind of monster are you to treat them so?” The overseer took a step back. The guards chuckled nervously. One of them told Captain Makebliss to control his wench. Makebliss said nothing. His face was drawn and pale save for his swollen scabbed purple nose. Much the Miller’s Son stood very close behind him. “I’m not his prisoner,” Maid Marion told Mickle. “He is mine.” And suddenly the shingle shore became a battlefield. While Much held Makebliss the other outlaws stopped pretending to be sailors and turned on the guards they mingled with. David of Doncaster hammered down a whip-wielding sergeant with scientifically- accurate blows. Gilbert Whitehand tripped his target and stamped on him while he was down. Little John picked up two of the Sheriff’s men and slammed them together. Scarlet pounced on the nearest foe, broke the man’s jaw, then sank his teeth into the guard’s ear. Alan a Dale had climbed back up the rope ladder to the top of the ridge. Now he severed the cords that held it in place, sending it coiling down to splash into the shallows. None of the garrison above could get down to assist the guards who battled below. The minstrel made his own escape down another double-loop of rope that he could pull down after him. Mickle staggered back, tripped on the pebbles, fell into the washing waves. Marion loomed over him. “You’ve done terrible deeds, slavemaster. Now Robin Hood has come to bring you to justice.” “W-what justice?” the overseer stammered as the reduced guard force at the cliff bottom were overcome. “Me,” Marion told him. The prisoners had realised that something remarkable was going on. A few of them even joined in to subdue the guards. Mickle sprang up and scrambled towards the child slaves. “Watch out! Clorinda shouted, but her fetters prevented her from stopping the overseer grab a young girl and press a knife to her neck. “All hold!” Mickle screamed, “Or I’ll slit t’lass’s weasand!” One of the enslaved Egton men struck him from behind with a heavy lump of shale. The overseer crumpled. Marion dragged the child away from him. The prisoners raged forward and fell on Mickle, grabbing up stones to strike him with vengeful fury. The savage execution took whatever fight remained out of the other guards on the shore. They dropped their weapons and begged quarter from the outlaws; they begged protection from the slaves. “On your knees, then!” Will Scarlet growled at the surrendering soldiers. He hammered one in the belly and crumpled him into the surf to demonstrate. The other men knelt down quickly. The man who’d downed Mickle broke out of the huddle of captives and raced over to where Clorinda sat in chains. “Cloe!” “Brom!” the queen of the shepherdesses cried out, struggling to her feet. “You live!” Little John snapped the shackles that restrained her. “Nicely played,” he congratulated the black-haired beauty. “You fooled the Sheriff. That’s not easily done.” Clorinda fell into her husband’s embrace. The confused prisoners huddled together, unsure what was happening. Some of them still held the bloody stones that had transformed the overseer into a gristly feast for the wheeling seagulls. Some looked nervously at the supposed pirates, confused that Whitby fishermen freely aided them, uncertain why the dread Captain Makebliss was trembling and silent. “You’re being rescued,” Friar Tuck announced to the slaves. “Get the other children out of the caves. Everybody needs to board the ship before the tide turns.” “Rescued?” a harried, pinch-faced women asked. “How? We’re enslaved now, by law. There’s no escape nor rescue for us.” “I think we’ve got a way,” Marian promised. “The bad news is it’s a Robin Hood plan.” An arrow clattered down on the shingle beside her. The soldiers in the camp had worked out what was happening on the shore. “Time to go,” Little John announced. He beckoned for Much to drag Captain Makebliss aboard. “Anybody who wants to leave get on the ship now.” Another pair of arrows thrummed down from above. “It’ll take time to get all the children out, John,” Tuck warned. “Some of these people are very ill.” He stepped over Mickle’s pulped corpse and went to help the weakest captives limp onto the ship. “Then break out the longbows, lads,” John of Hathersage decided. “If those Sheriff’s guards want to match shots with the merry men of Sherwood then let’s have at it!” ***

Aelstan had earned his position as captain of the Sheriff’s guard the hard way, by fighting for it. The dispossessed Saxon had clawed his way up by being tougher and fiercer than the men around him. He knew how to kill. He closed on Robin Hood, knowing his Sheriff was watching him. De Vendenal and his escort drew close to watch the show. Robin gave ground at first. The captain was stronger, and he wore chainmail beneath his uniform tabard. Aelstan came in fast, pressing the outlaw towards the crumbling cliff’s edge. The young outlaw dodged his first three strokes then caught the fourth, shivering his own steel into the captain’s blade. “How many died in your mines?” Hood demanded. “How many children have you murdered? How much gold did their blood buy?” “Always so righteous!” spat Aelstan. He pressed harder, flicking his blade at the bandit’s exposed face and arms. “Life’s not a ballad, wolfshead. You’ll learn that today. It’s bloody and it’s brutal, and for you it’s short.” “You make it like that, captain. I prefer my ballads.” Robin managed to cut through Aelstan’s guard for a moment and jabbed at the captain’s head. Aelstan shied away from losing his good eye. Angry at having his secret fear exposed, the Sheriff’s man renewed his attack with fresh venom. He pulled a hunting dagger from his belt so that Hood must watch for danger from two ways. And always the steep precipice above the sea-dashed rocks loomed closer. “When you’re dead your spell will be broken, Hood. They’ll all see you were nothing, nobody. All those stupid worthless people in their stinking hovels, they’ll know how much you misled them. How you fooled them into thinking they were something other than cattle.” “When I’m dead they’ll remember,” Robin Hood promised. “And where one rebel falls five more will rise, fifty more, a thousand! This land was meant to be free. Until there’s fairness and justice men like you and your rat-bearded Sheriff can never sleep safe. England won’t bow forever. Tyrants are not for us.” Aelstan got in close where his strength could win him advantage. “Sheep bleat but it won’t make them free. The strong will always rule. The weak will always be slaves.” The captain’s blistered face screwed into a red snarl. “I wish I could take all their children and crush them just to hear the noise their stupid parents make! Then they’d know what this world is.” Robin punished him with a left jab, sending the soldier backward, bloody. “That York mob didn’t disfigure you,” the outlaw realised. “They revealed your true face!” William de Vendenal sighed. “Get on with it, Aelstan. There’s no time for ethical debate. I want Hood finished quickly so I can catch his insipid friends as well. Hamstring him helpless and drag him back to camp.” Aelstan renewed his attack. Heedless of the minor cuts it would cost him he hurled himself at Robin Hood, clutching him round the waist, lifting him from the ground then tossing him down. Robin landed hard but rolled aside from the sword-cut that followed. He almost tumbled over the cliff’s edge. Stones and turf broke loose and dropped into the troubled sea that dashed on the killer rocks. Hood’s sword slipped over the precipice and vanished in the spume. Aelstan leaned down for a final stroke. Hood reached up and caught the necklace of jet dangling round Aelstan’s throat. He twisted it round, choking the captain. Aelstan wrenched backwards by instinct. The silver chain snapped, scattering his retirement across the grass and over the edge of Fylingthorpe cliff. “No!” he shouted, losing all sanity. His dead eye was blood red now. Flecks of spittle dripped from his blistered lips. “Die, Robin Hood! Die!” Hood was on the ground beneath him. The outlaw reached up and stabbed two fingers into Aelstan’s good eye. As the captain screamed, Robin used his hook-hold to throw his enemy off him. Aelstan rolled sideways, misjudging or forgetting the line where the turf dropped away. Too late he scrambled for purchase. His fingers caught a tuft of grass. It came loose in his fist. The guard captain fell, his body clawing at air as the rocks came towards him. He crashed onto the jagged stones, bounced once, then lay sprawled in a broken bloody pile. Robin rolled from the edge. His fingers closed around one of the discarded jet beads from Aelstan’s chain. He dragged himself to his feet. The Sheriff of Nottingham was there, with six men. Four of them had arrows nocked at the outlaw. “You’ve nowhere to run, Robin i’ th’ Hood,” de Vendenal pointed out. “You’ve nowhere to hide, Sheriff. I’ll always find you and stop you. One day I’ll stop you for good.” William de Vendenal swept his arms along the bleak cliff-top, indicating how the outlaw had exhausted his options for escape. No welcoming forest waited to shelter him. No clever tunnel would allow his exit. There was only the Sheriff’s guard ready to take an unarmed man, or the remorseless rocks by the churning sea. “This story has a different ending, wolfshead. This story’s called ‘The Death of Robin Hood’. The young outlaw stood at bay. The sea wind whipped his blonde locks towards the azure horizon. He grinned. “Are you sure, Sheriff? I mean, that’s quite catchy, but is it accurate? Why not call it ‘Robin Hood steals the Sheriff’s jet’? Or ‘Robin Hood frees the Sheriff’s slaves’?” He pointed over the waters where the royal warship was bobbing over the waves. “That’ll be my men taking your treasure chests and prisoners away from you.” De Vendenal stared out to sea. The war-boat had pulled down the Prince’s colours. Now it sailed a white stag on Lincoln green. The Sheriff frowned then sneered. “I would sacrifice a thousand pounds to have you in my grasp, Robin Hood,” he declared. “There is more black amber. There are always more infants to enslave. But when you have died a death that makes men shudder in the night there will be no more resistance.” “You’d be surprised, de Vendenal. There are things you don’t understand about the heart of England. I tried telling Aelstan but he was blind even before I put his eye out.” The Sheriff wasn’t about to let Robin plot a clever escape later. “Seize him. Break his fingers and kneecaps now. Bring what’s left of him to the camp.” He considered further. “Take his sight, too. Let’s see how good a shot he is after that.” Robin hurled the jet bead with an archer’s accuracy. It shot like a bullet into De Vendenal’s eye. The Sheriff cried out, fell back, clutching his bloody face. While the guards reacted to their master’s sudden injury Robin turned to the sea. “I know what this story’s called now,” he told the Sheriff. “This is ‘Robin Hood’s Leap’.” And he jumped.13

***

Aboard the warship the outlaws had seen the tiny figures fighting above the bay. Sharp-eyed Much was the first to identify the combatants as Robin and Aelstan. “We have to get to him,” Little John insisted. He turned to the borrowed fisherman of Whitby who sailed the boat for the outlaws. “Set in. Rob needs help!” “It’s too late,” Scarlet said with a soldier’s pragmatism. “By the time we got there we’d be too late for Robin, just in time to be cut down by the Sheriff’s guard ourselves.” Clorinda shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare and tried to follow the action. It was clear Hood was surrounded. “I wanted you to meet Robin of Loxley,” she told her husband Brom. “Now you never will.” Marion said nothing, merely clutched the sail-ropes and watched as her forest king duelled the Sheriff’s captain. A cheer rose up from the outlaws of Sherwood when Aelstan toppled from the cliff. “But what’s he doing now?” Much demanded as Robin’s unmistakable figure backed towards the edge where the captain had fallen. “He’s at bay,” guessed Friar Tuck. “They’ve got him surrounded. There’s no way out.” “But one,” said Maid Marion. “Watch.” Robin Hood turned and leaped from the cliff. As he fell he twisted, turning his drop into a dive. “There’s dozens of rocks down there,” Clorinda objected. “The water’s full of them.” “Watch,” insisted Marion. Robin vanished between the jagged boulders at the waterline. “He’d dead,” whispered David in a small shocked voice. “What do we do now? Robin’s dead!” “Watch,” Marion repeated. Her voice was less calm than she’d hoped. “It’s a million to one shot,” Little John owned. “That’s our Rob’s speciality, for sure.” “Come on, Robin!” Marion hissed. “Make it work!” A wet blonde head broke out of the water fifty yards beyond the rocky shore. Robin Hood waved to the distant boat. “Come about,” Tuck told the sailors. “Prepare to take aboard the madman.” “See him safe,” Marion agreed. “Then I’ll kill him.” Clorinda nodded. She grasped Maid Marion’s hand briefly. An understanding passed between them. The boat of stolen jet and rescued slaves hove in to pick up the prince of thieves.

13 Many places claim to be the location of “Robin Hood’s Leap”, including some that are actually named that. In selecting this location for story purposes the author was mindful that the coastal cove where Robin meets his men described in this narrative, with the steep jagged cliffs above it, is nowadays the picturesque fishing village called Robin Hood’s Bay. Robin Hood tourists are recommended to visit this tiny unspoiled location themselves and make their own judgement on the matter. The boat didn’t put in at Whitby, where the abbey’s writ ran, not at Scarborough where a royal castle and garrison commanded the promontory. Robin had the fishermen take the vessel down the coast to the Humber estuary then up the river until the broad Trent branched off to the north. “This is our stop, for most of us bandits,” the young outlaw told Clorinda, Brom, the refugees of Egton and the fishermen of Whitby strand. “Alan and Tuck will be sailing with you all the way up river to York.” “York?” puzzled Brom. “Why…” “The law is clear about slaves and runaway serfs,” Marion supplied. “If you can live free inside the boundaries of a charter city for a year and a day you are freemen forever. Be sure to get some helpful clergyman to notarise it for you.” “And you’ll make your way in York with this,” Alan added, patting one of the heavy strongboxes of Whitby jet. “You mined it so you should spend it. There’s enough here to set up every family with a home and trade inside the city walls, where the Sheriff can never find you.” Little John tapped his seven-foot quarterstaff on another of the chests. “This one’s for the smallfolk of Whitby, to compensate them for their pirate woes. You’ll be taking Makebliss back with you to face local justice with that captured crew – and neither Abbot nor Sheriff need know how that trial goes.” “Make if fair, though,” insisted Marion. “We have to be better than De Vendenal.” “And don’t forget that you can claim salvage fees if you return a royal boat you happen to find abandoned and drifting,” Will Scarlet pointed out. “A quarter of the vessel’s price. That’ll be a nice little windfall.” Alan a Dale laid claim to the third chest. “This for His Grace Geoffrey Plantagenet, Archbishop of York, to help remind him that slavery’s wrong. A prohibition from him in the Church’s name will end this particular scheme of the Sheriff’s. If de Vendenal wants jet hereafter he’ll have to pay a wage.” “Archbishop Geoffrey’s very moral,” Tuck told the peasants, “where large chests of treasure are involved.” Robin perched up on the final trunk. “And this for the poor of Sherwood. We’re behind on deliveries. It’s been a nice holiday but we need to get back to work.” “Holiday?” Will Scarlet almost yelped. Marion had heard Robin’s account of the clifftop confrontations by now. She laid her head on the outlaw’s shoulder, her red locks twining with his blonde hair. “They were wrong you know. You will be remembered. This rebellion of yours, showing that tyrants can be fought, that wealth can be used for good, that everybody has worth – that rebellion will never end. Nor should it.” “So we can work out a couple more verses to those songs about you and me, then?” Robin asked her speculatively. She squeaked as his hand closed on her. She glanced over at the beautiful Clorinda, queen of the shepherdesses. “I want four more verses at least, Robin Hood,” Maid Marion insisted to the lord of Sherwood. “And they’d better be good long ones. See to it!”

More of I.A. Watson’s Robin Hood stories appear in his novels Robin Hood: King of Sherwood and Robin Hood: Arrow of Justice. Sample chapters, links to purchase print or pdf file copies, and additional information about Robin Hood’s cast and world appear at http://www.chillwater.org.uk/writing/robinhome.htm I.A. Watson’s Robin Hood Homepage.

Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2011 reserved by Ian Watson. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

Artwork copyright © 2011 reserved by Rob Davis. Used with permission. All rights reserved. "John Doolittle, Psionic Investigator" was lettered in black-outlined gold leaf on the frosted glass at the top of the varnished wooden door. Inside was a reception room of antiseptic white, with various magazines on a small table and two straight chairs against one wall. Inside, in the main office, a corpse lay on the floor. John Doolittle had collapsed on his desk. A big tom cat, weighing a solid ten pounds, was also on the desk, licking Doolittle's face. "Wake up, Boss!" the cat said. When there was no response, the cat pushed his nose against the unconscious man's face and licked some more. "Wake up!" he demanded loudly.

Doolittle stirred. His eyes opened slowly, and then he managed to pull himself erect in his seat, seemingly unaware of the pistol in his hand. "That's more like it!" the cat said approvingly. Eyes widening, Doolittle looked down at the cat. "You can talk!" he said in surprise. "Of course I can talk!" the cat said, indignantly. "But, but Tom – that's amazing!" "Nothing amazing about it," was the cat's retort. "Been talking all my life. What's amazing is that you can understand me! Up to this point, about all you've understood is when I was hungry or wanted to go outside." Doolittle shook his head, and then finally took notice of the gun. "I just killed a man!" he said, shocked. Dead as a mackerel," Tom agreed. "So?" "You wouldn't understand, Tom. You kill all the time." Tom lashed his tail. "Not really; just birds and mice. They have such small brains, they don't count." The man chuckled. "That red chow didn't believe that." John Doolittle had lived in his office until recently when he had bought a small house with down payment from money he had saved. The previous day he and Tom were strolling down the nearby sidewalk when a red chow dog appeared across the street. Seeing Tom, the chow started to cross toward them. In response, Tom sat down and started licking his paws. As the dog neared them, Tom looked straight at it and uttered a small hiss. The chow paused and seemed to suddenly realize there was somewhere else it needed to be and, as casually as possible, walked away. "What did you say to him, Tom?" the man asked, smiling.

"I just asked him which ear he wanted torn off first. Like all bullies, he walks on his rep," the cat said with satisfaction. Then he added, "Better call the cops." "But I'm a murderer!" "Hey, he threatened you and was reaching for his gun. I saw it all." With a bitter smile, John Doolittle said, "Oh, sure; tell them my witness is my tom cat!" He shook his head. "But it'll be worse if I don't call." Reluctantly he picked up his desk phone and dialed. "Homicide," he said when someone answered. "Ask for Jonesy," Tom hissed. "He knows you." Nodding, Doolittle added, "Detective Jones, please." When a familiar voice said with his usual impatience, "Detective Jones. What is it?" Doolittle felt better. "I just killed somebody, Jonesy! In my office," he added breathlessly. "Can you come over right away?" With expected humor, Detective Jones said, "Well, if it ain't Doctor Doolittle, PI. What happened, Doc; did he step on Tom's tail?" In the urgency of stress, Doolittle said, "I'm not joking, Jonesy! He's getting blood on my linoleum right now!" "If he's bleeding, he ain't dead. I'll send an ambulance," Jones said, sobering up. "He's past bleeding, Jonesy," Doolittle said.

Fully serious, Detective Jones asked, "What happened?" "He came in, threatened me, and went for his gun. My gun drawer was open and I shot first. He wanted me off a case I'm working on." "I said you oughten've taken no divorce case, especially when the husband, George McElvey, is a gang Boss!" "But he's cheated on Mrs. McElvey dozens of times," Doolittle protested. "She was telling the truth. I could tell!" "That sonic stuff, huh?" his friend said. "SIGH-onick," the frustrated PI corrected, for what seemed like the hundredth time. Then he added, "Yes, I picked it up with my mind. Not only that, Jonesy, but she's in high society. It would be good for business having her as a client." The detective snorted. " Sure, she's high society; McElvey wanted to move up in the world, and she didn't know he was a big-time crook. But there ain't gonna be no business if you're dead, pal. That's what McElvey wants and what you'll be, now. You done got proof lying on your floor. John Doolittle shuddered. "I don't need reminding. Please come over and get rid of the corpse." While waiting, Tom asked, "What was it like, Boss? Killing him, I mean." The PI repeated his shudder. "Don't you know, Tom?" With a jerk of his tail for emphasis, Tom asked, "Hurts too much to talk about it?" The man sighed. "I don't want to, but I think it would be better if I did." Closing his eyes, he paused. "The room flooded with the black of death. Quivering red pools of fear rolled across everything, and the silver of shock splintered it all. I know it only lasted a second, but that second was an eternity long." He shook his head violently, trying to dislodge the vision, then opened his eyes and stared at infinity. Tom paused a moment, took in a deep breath, then said, "Gee, Boss; I get it; I get it all. No wonder you passed out." Sudden knowledge widened Doolittle's eyes. "That's what did it, Tom! In some way, my psionic jolt burned a new path in my mind. Since my name's Doolittle, it opened you up to me!" He smiled, then added, "Or opened me up to you, from your point of view." "Makes sense, Boss," Tom said, and purred with satisfaction.

+ + + Homicide Detective Rob Jones was a one-man riot crew. He stood six feet, four inches tall with broad shoulders, a steely gaze, and muscles which forced him to have his suits tailored to fit. He was square jawed with a broad forehead and brown hair that refused to obey, despite the gel he used liberally. Two policemen were with him, one skinny but almost as tall as Jones with another one barely tall enough to qualify for the job. Jones referred to them as Mutt and Jeff and neither of them were aware of the old comic book characters, so weren't bothered by their nicknames. The three of them entered and looked down at the body. Jones leaned over and turned the corpse onto its back, then picked up something and stood. "This is what he was going for," he said grimly, holding an over-sized Zippo lighter. "Oh my God!" Doolittle breathed. "I killed a man for wanting a cigarette." Jonesy chuckled. "You're okay, Doc. Look." He flipped the bottom of the 'lighter' and revealed two barrels. "It's a disguised derringer. He wanted to shoot you, no doubt about it." He frowned. "But why didn't that mind-trick of yours tell you?" Sighing, the PI said, "I don't read minds, Jonesy. Emotions, yes; thoughts, no. If this guy had an extreme hatred for me, I could have detected it. A cold-blooded intent to murder me was just a job to him." "Told you it would be okay," Tom said. Without thinking, Doolittle said, "Thanks, Tom." "Whatcha thanking yer cat for?" the detective asked, while the two policemen were zipping the dead man into a body bag. Quickly Doolittle improvised with, "He made a purr of satisfaction," he told his friend. "You learn these things when you live with a cat long enough." Then he devised a change of subject. "What do I do now, Jonesy? There's no doubt McElvey wants to kill me." "That new house you just bought ain't bullet-proof, pal. Neither are you. I guess I could take ya into pertective custody." The tall and skinny man had pulled out a cellphone and was asking the coroner's office to send a wagon. "Mutt, I toldja to start with we needed a wagon." Jeff muttered, "Well, we had to make it official first." "You saying my friend mighta been lying?" Jones growled. Jeff shrugged. "He's your friend." The detective opened his mouth, as if to object, then shrugged and turned to Doolittle. "Get yer stuff together." "Why?" "Like I said, pertective custody," Jones snapped. Doolittle straightened to his full six feet. "Thanks, but no thanks," he said firmly. "I have a business to run." The detective stared at him and then said in disgust, "I'll getcha a bullet-proof vest. Won't pertect yer skull, but yer so thick-headed, a bullet would probly bounce right off." After everybody, including the body of the corpse, left his office, Doolittle said to Tom, "I'm sick of TV dinners. Let's grab lunch and the Sidewalk Café." "Yeah," Tom said. "Maybe they'll have some tuna." As they walked out of the building, the PI's psionic sense whirred. He turned in time to see a blackjack swinging down at his head.

+ + +

Doolittle woke up on his back, in the rear of a car. Carefully he slitted his eyes open. Through the car's window, he saw the ornate corner of the local Catholic Church building. The car turned left, onto Tinker Drive. Tom! Doolittle thought. Hope they didn't hurt him. Then his psionics told him Tom was trying to contact him, so he must be okay. Five minutes away from the church, the car pulled into a drive. "We're there, Frack," the driver said. "You think I'm blind?" Doolittle's captor said. "Open the garage door and drive in." Doolittle started to rise, but Frack snapped, "Stay put. I'll tell ya when you can get up." Leaving the engine running, the driver got out of the car. Doolittle heard a garage door sliding open. The driver returned and pulled the car in, switched off the engine, got out and closed the garage door. "Okay, punk," his captor said. "Up and out. Follow Jim." The driver unlocked the door to the house and went inside. As ordered, Doolittle followed. There was another door to his left and its window square showed the back yard opening to an alley. "Keep moving, punk!" Frack ordered. "The next door's yours." Ahead was a bare living room with nothing more than three chairs, a small table with a phone on it, and a hall that led deeper into the house. 'The next door' was just a few steps from the door leading out back. Frack opened it. Just in time, John Doolittle's alarm flared and he stepped through the door quickly; quickly enough that Frack's attempt to shove him inside went awry. The gunman bumped into the doorframe and cursed. Oh, fine, the PI thought. Warn me in time to avoid being pushed, but don't get Frack enough off-balance that I could take him down! "Middle of room, punk," Frack snarled, aiming his gun at Doolittle. "I'd shoot you right now, but the chief wants the pleasure." Doolittle noticed the room's one window was open a few inches at the top as well as the bottom. "What's with the window?" "We're good to you," Frack growled. "Ain't no AC, so we nailed the window open so's you'd have fresh air. Now stay put!" He left, locking the door behind him. John Doolittle quickly went to the door and pressed his ear against it. He could barely make out, "…Hold him, chief. See ya soon." Behind him a voice said, "Some warning system you got, Boss. You turned just in time for that blackjack to sap you." The startled PI spun around. "Tom!" he said, seeing the cat slipping through the bottom of the window. Keeping his voice low, he said, "How did you get here so fast?" "Rode the car bumper," Tom said casually. "Got off when they stopped out front. Followed your scent, and here I am." He ran his tongue over his lips. "What now?" John rubbed his chin, thinking about the situation. "Just the two of us can't take on two armed men, even by surprise," he said with regret. "And I can't get out that window. I just don't know, Tom." The cat lashed his tail. "I know what to do," he purred. "Hang loose a minute." Saying that, Tom went out the window. Since he had nothing else to do, the man waited. "Now we outnumber them," Tom said, jumping back in. Immediately after him came a Siamese tom, followed by three alley cats, a tabby tom almost Tom's size, and more, and more. "Let's take them, Boss." Tom hissed. After a brief man to cat pow-wow, Doolittle pounded his palm on the door. "There's no bathroom in here!" he shouted. When there was no response, he pounded more. "I need a bathroom!" he screamed. "Okay, okay!" he heard Frack say at last. "Back away from the door. I've got my gun." Frack walked in, gun first – and his jaw dropped. Doolittle was standing three feet back, a cat on each shoulder and Tom atop his head. The three cats shot onto him, claws slashing his cheeks and hands, while others climbed up his legs. Frack screamed. Doolittle grabbed Frack's pistol and saw that other cats had raced across the living room to the driver, who shot to his feet and shouted, "Cats! I hate cats! I'm afraid of cats!" The PI walked into the living room and said, "Then be still and they won't hurt you." The driver dropped back into his chair, shuddering, while the cats circled him. Heading to the phone, Doolittle asked, "What's this address?" "I, I, I don't know!" the man gibbered. "I just know where it is!"

Doolittle sagged. "What's wrong, Boss?" Tom asked. "I want to call Jonesy and get him out here. All I know is it's five minutes from the Church." "No prob!" Tom said. "Just tell him to look for the house with all the cats in the yard." The man brightened. "That would do it! But cats in the alley would be better." Tail high, Tom exited. "What are you muttering about?" the driver asked. "I'm calling a friend," Doolittle said, going to the phone. From the screams still coming from Frack, he had no worry about interference. In six minutes, Detective Jones walked in through the back door, his bulk filling the doorway. "Wasn't too far away," he said. "What's the plan?" Then he heard Frack whimpering and looked in on the bleeding man who was guarded by four cats. "What happened to that jerk?" The PI smiled. "He made some cats mad." Then he added, grimly, "You'd better get out back. McElvey might get here any minute." Jones nodded, and stepped back outside. The back door had hardly closed when a black and gold limousine double-parked in front of the house and McElvey got out, a determined look on his square face. When the gangster slammed the front door open, the driver jumped to his feet and shouted, "Chief! It's a --" His words exploded into a scream as Tom climbed up his leg, claws digging deep. As the man collapsed, trembling, into his chair, the PI said, "Easy, Tom," and the cat settled with a hiss into the driver's lap. McElvey said, "What the hell is this?"

John Doolittle turned to the gangster boss and stared into the barrel of a .45 automatic. Trying to remain calm, the PI said, "My cat doesn't like him." "Where's Frack?" McElvey snapped. "Doesn't matter," Doolittle answered. "You'll kill me anyway." "Damn right!" the gunman snarled. "But first, I want you to know I'm going to burn down your new house, blow up your office and kill your cat, too!" The back door opened and Detective Jones stepped inside, pointed his pistol at the gang boss. "Not this time, Mac," he said grimly. As he said that, the front door opened, knocking McElvey flat. His gun fired, sending a bullet into the floor. A policeman stood in the doorway. "Good timing, Lou," Jones said, then he added, "Get up, Mac – and leave yer gun on the floor!" McElvey struggled to his feet, and then glared at Jones. "You got nothing on me, Jones!" "Oh, I gotcha good, Mac. All on tape. Kidnapping, threatening bodily harm – not only to a man, but a cat also – and even double-parking." Jones grinned. "The city council don't like double-parking."

+ + +

Detective Jones and PI Doolittle sat at an outdoor table in front of the Sidewalk Café. Tom was on the sidewalk beside Doolittle, enjoying tuna. "Thanks for saving my life, Jonesy." "Hey, you brung McElvey down!" Jones said, trying to get his large body settled comfortably in the café chair. "I oughta be thanking you!" "One bad thing about it, though," the PI said. "Couldn’t prove infidelity on him, so I didn't complete my case." Jones gave a booming laugh that attracted attention from other customers, who smiled at his joviality. "You got her just what she wanted, Doc! After his arrest, she can easily get a divorce. That's what she wants, and what you delivered. Don't worry; she'll pay you, and sing yer praises." With a satisfied smile, Doolittle relaxed. He looked down at Tom. "That means more tuna for Tom," he said. "Tom was the real hero." "You got it, Boss!" Tom said, and purred his approval.

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Poke Morgan ducked as the bullet pocked the face of the huge boulder he was hiding behind, showering him with dust and rock fragments. He stabbed his Walker Colt out and triggered off three quick rounds just to keep their heads down. He had no idea who the men were that had started shooting at him, but he aimed to let them know he was none too pleased by it!

A fusillade of fire hit the boulder, driving him behind it once more. Mayhap he might have made them fellers a little bit mad by shooting back. Poke reloaded his Colt, filling all the chambers of the six-shooter and dropping the empty cartridges to the ground. Poke spun around and popped up, emptying his revolver at his attackers. He heard a few of them started to cuss as his bullets landed pretty close to them and he spun back to cover. His horse looked at him from a little deeper in the gentle hollow and seemed to laugh at him.

“That wasn’t called for, Crowbait,” Poke told his horse. The Bay Gelding rolled his eyes and nickered again. Poke looked at the horse. “You think you could do better?” he asked it. The horse put his head down as more bullets chipped away at the boulder. Poke finished reloading his Walker Colt and popped up, firing off three rounds so fast that it sounded like one loud report. One of the men below yelped in pain and Poke grinned to himself. He emptied out the spent cartridges and filled the cylinder with live rounds, then ran to his horse and jumped into the saddle.

The gelding crow-hopped a bit then decided getting out of there was better than fighting, especially after a ricochet burned the air near his face. Poke aimed the gelding into a space that was barely big enough to accommodate them both. Rocks scraped at his legs through his jeans as they went through the small gap. The horse threaded its way through the boulders following a trail made more for a mountain goat than a horse, then suddenly they were in the open with a long flat plain ahead of them.

Poke put his spurs to the horse and it leaped away, putting as much distance between himself and his attackers as possible. He had only planned on passing through, heading to Boulder Springs to visit his cousin when them fellers back there had started shooting at him. He still didn’t know why and it bothered him.

Sierra Lane looked up as the sound of distant gunfire echoed down from the hills. She stood and wiped her hands on her skirt, a worried expression on her sun-bronzed face. She brushed a stray lock of blonde hair from her face as she looked towards the hills. The sounds worried her. The stage coach station was no stranger to trouble, from Indian attacks to bandits. On the plus side, at least her father was home for a change instead of spending his time and his money on liquor and whores.

He had only been to town once since his beating at the hands of an outlaw band, and that had been a short trip for supplies. Brock Lane had even seemed to be working harder since the incident. Sierra found herself wondering about Colt Newby. The young Texas Ranger hadn’t been by in a few weeks, and despite a letter telling her he had been sent to track an outlaw along the Rio Grande, she still worried for the man that had stolen her heart. She couldn’t help but wonder if the Texas Ranger were chasing outlaws in the hills, much as he had been when they had met.

“You hear that, Sis?” Caleb, her younger brother, asked looking up at her. The two of them had been weeding the garden.

“How could I miss it?” Sierra sighed.

“You think it’s him?” Caleb looked at her. He knew how much she cared about the young Texas Ranger, despite the fact they were actually in New Mexico.

“Likely not, he was headed south when he wrote,” Sierra shrugged her broad shoulders.

“But it could be,” Caleb met her gaze. Finally Sierra nodded.

“It could,” Sierra acknowledged. “I’ll keep a watch out,” Caleb reassured her. He ranged out fairly far hunting for game, something her father seemed loath to do. In fact, Brock Lane seemed almost afraid to leave the station of late. She had never thought to see the day when her father would be afraid of anything.

“You do that, I aim to go check on Paw,” Sierra nodded, walking towards the barn. Her Paw seemed to spend most of his time there these days. It was a pleasant change from the days when he would spend most of his time drunk in town, leaving the day to day operations of the stage station to her. Yet in another respect, it was bothersome, because it seemed like he almost didn’t trust her to take care of business at the station anymore.

Part of her felt that the change in his behavior was a good thing, but another part of her felt that it was not. It was something she had yet to make a firm decision on. She still carried the .32 six shooter in the pocket of her skirt. And it was loaded and ready to speak if she felt the need. Caleb had hit a growth spurt of late and stood nearly six feet tall despite the fact he was barely thirteen years of age. He kept his Winchester repeating rifle close at hand at all times.

“Pa,” Sierra called into the shadows of the barn.

“Yeah?” she heard his reply and spotted him walking out of a stall that held one of the relief horses for the stagecoach.

“Heard some shots up in the hills, I thought you should know,” Sierra stepped into the barn.

“Glad that you did. Is the shotgun loaded?” her paw found her eyes. “It is,” Sierra almost whispered.

“Good,” Brock nodded. He hated the fact that he had crawled so low that his own daughter regarded him like a hired hand.

“Pa,” he looked up at her. “It’s nice having you back home more,” Sierra smiled at him. A wave of guilt washed over him once more and he looked away.

“Sierra, I’m right sorry I never done better by you. If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll try and make up for it,” Brock spoke softly.

“I know you will, Pa.” Sierra turned and walked back towards the house. Brock Lane watched her go, realizing that while he had been wallowing in his grief over his dead wife, his daughter had become quite a young woman.

Brock stood a little straighter as he watched her go. It had been a long time since he had felt anything like pride. It was right nice feeling it again. He turned back around and went back to mucking out the stalls. He had time to get it done before the next stage came through.

Dud Trembly swore as he reached the boulder where the man had been hiding. There weren’t nothing but tracks and dust and empty shell casings in the dirt. He looked up as Joe Cotton came riding up beside him.

“We missed the bastard,” Trembly shook his head.

“Kyle ain’t gonna be too happy about that. He like to had a fit when he found out Morgan had sent for his cousin,” Cotton sighed.

“You ain’t far off on that guess. I ain’t looking forward to being the one that has to spring that news on him,” Trembly cursed again.

“Cain’t say I would be neither. Why don’t you let Pete do it?” Cotton looked at him.

“Cause that pie-eyed fool would try to blame me for everything that went wrong. You know as well as I did that Pete damn near soiled himself when Morgan shot back at us,” Trembly sighed.

“Yep, I smelled it too,” Cotton made a face.

“Leastwise Derry held his own,” Trembly nodded. Luke Derry was new to their outfit.

“Kid has some sand in him,” Cotton acknowledged.

“That he does,” Trembly agreed.

“So what now?” Cotton looked at him.

“Get the boys. We’re going after him,” Trembly said, his face set in a frown.

“I had a feelin’ you was gonna say that,” Cotton sighed. He stood in the saddle and waved his hat, signaling for the others to join them.

“Nobody ever told you working for Kyle would be easy,” Trembly told him, urging his horse into the gap that Morgan had squeezed through some time ago. He turned the air blue as his legs scrapped the rocks and they took some skin off through his jeans.

Joe Cotton shook his head. He had a bad feeling about this whole job. He was beginning to wonder if working for Johnny Kyle was going to be worth it.

Boulder Springs, New Mexico

Sam Morgan looked out the window of his general store, studying the street. A few swirls of dust moved along the dusty street. He eyed the quiet street and found himself wondering why it was so quiet this particular day. Usually there was steady traffic in and out of the Desert Flower, the saloon that Johnny Kyle owned. He had also noticed that a few of Kyle’s gun hands were missing from town. He felt himself wondering why, but he was afraid he knew. His cousin Poke was overdue.

He had written to Poke nearly a month ago, asking him to swing through Boulder Springs. Poke had sent a letter back saying he would be on his way. So far there had been no sign and Sam was starting to worry.

He had considered going over to talk to Marshal Stover, but most of the town knew that Stover took his orders from Johnny Kyle. Hell, it had been Kyle’s boys that had beat poor old Brock Lane half to death a couple of months before.

Sam had been one of the men that had gotten Lane out of town and dumped him near the stage stop. He had felt bad that he hadn’t been out to check on the man since. The bare fact of it was that he was afraid to leave Lottie in town by herself for fear that Kyle would sick his men on her. His poor wife was a delicate flower of a woman. The thought of her facing those ruffians was more than he could bear.

There had to be something that could be done. If only Poke would make it to Boulder Springs, he would know what to do. Poke had a reputation for being a man who could handle trouble. And trouble was brewing in Boulder Springs. Gun trouble. Sam shook his head, sorrowful that he wasn’t up to facing it himself.

Poke Morgan had swung out in a wide circle after coming down out of the mountains. He knew that it would be far harder for those men to follow him if he swung out and lost his trail in the tall prairie grass. It would also allow him to get a lay of the land and a better feel for what he was riding into.

He had a feelin’ that them fellers back there had been waitin’ on him to come along. There was nothing about it that felt anything like mere chance. Now more than ever he knew he had to get to Boulder Springs.

He had him a feeling that Sam was in deep trouble. He didn’t know Sam Morgan well, had met him only once a long time ago, but Sam was kinfolk. Their Ma’s had been sisters. And blood was blood. From where Poke came from, when one Morgan was in trouble, the rest would come a running. Still, one thing was certain. Just riding into Boulder Springs without knowing what was going on could get him killed. He had heard about a stage station out this way. What was the name again? Oh yeah, Comanche Station. Seemed like that might be a good place to start. Poke swung his horse back towards the west, sure he would find the stage route fairly soon…

Sierra Lane wiped her hands as she watched the stage pull out. Her father was walking in from the corral and she was glad to see that he had more spring in his step. She had been worried about him for a long time, but more so since he had suffered that horrible beating. It was almost funny how that had changed him. It had seemed to bring him back from the pale shadow of a man he had become after her mother’s death.

Perhaps she was reading too much into it. Sierra sighed and stepped back into the house to start on the dishes. Another Stage would roll through around dark. She would need clean dishes to prepare supper for the passengers.

While she scrubbed the lunch dishes, her thoughts wandered to Colt Newby. What was the young Texas Ranger doing? Was he thinking of her as she was thinking of him? He had promised to return to see her, even to pay court to her. Had he meant it? She brushed a stray lock of blonde hair from her face, thinking about how he had looked at her when he had headed back to Texas. She would see him again. That she was sure of. She turned back to her work. Then she heard the sound of hoof beats and set the dishes aside, moving to the door.

A single rider was coming in fast and coming in at a gallop. Sierra wiped her hands on her apron and snatched up the shotgun. Usually guests arriving in such a hurry had trouble on their heels. The cloud of dust he was throwing up led her to believe he had trouble on his trail, coming fast along behind him.

Sierra ran out onto the porch, hefting the shotgun to a ready to fire position. She started to yell for her father and brother but saw them both coming out of the barn. Both of them were carrying rifles. Sierra nodded, pleased that even her father was prepared for whatever they might face. The rider skidded his horse to a halt in front of the barn. “Injuns are coming!” he yelled, pulling his own rifle from its boot and leading his horse towards the barn.

“Indians? They haven’t been around here for a long time,” Brock Lane eyed the man, keeping his rifle trained on the rider.

“Tell that to the Apaches,” the man said, leading his horse into the barn. “Boy, get on over to the house. That gal is going to need help,” the rider waved a hand at Sierra.

“Good thinking,” Caleb called back as he broke into a run. Even as he crossed from the barn to the house, he could hear the yelling and yipping of the Apache war party. Sierra ducked back into the house, making room for Caleb to jump through the doorway before slamming it shut and dropping the bar to lock it.

The first of the Apaches rode into the yard and Brock Lane and the rider dropped two of them. Arrows flew toward the barn and Sierra blew two more of the attacking Indians off their horses with the shotgun. Caleb opened fire as well and emptied a couple of more horses of their riders. The Apaches broke off their attack and fled back down the road.

“Good shootin’ Sis,” Caleb called.

“I’m not sure it’s over yet,” Sierra sighed.

“They left, Sis,” Caleb shook his head.

“They could come back. Colt told me that Apaches do that some time. They break off to check their medicine, then if they think it might improve, they attack again,” Sierra explained. They crouched at the window, waiting. After several long moments, their father and the rider appeared in the doorway of the barn. Cautiously the men made their way to the house. Sierra unbarred the door and let them inside.

“This is Poke Morgan,” Brock Lane introduced the rider.

“I want to thank you all for saving my bacon. Nobody was more shocked than me when I come upon that band of Apaches, ‘cepting maybe them Apaches. I was busy tryin’ to avoid some bushwhackers when I run into them injuns and they decided to try an’ lift my hair,” Poke Morgan nodded.

“What brings you to Comanche Station?” Sierra eyed the stranger. She still didn’t trust him.

“Actually I was heading on into town, Ma’am. My cousin Sam wrote to me and asked me to come,” the rider smiled at her.

“Sam?” Sierra looked at him.

“Sam Morgan. He owns the general store. My name’s Poke,” the rider introduced himself.

“Sierra Lane, my brother Caleb and my Father, Brock,” Sierra said coolly.

“It’s surely a pleasure, Ma’am. I need to get word to my cousin that I’m here, but I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to just ride into town. In the letter Sam sent me, he said that there had been some trouble and he needed my help,” Poke explained.

“So you wish to involve us,” Sierra frowned. “Don’t see as how I got much choice. Sam could get killed or maybe worse if’n I ride into town not knowing what is going on,” Poke looked at her shrewdly.

“So you would like for one of us to go in and find out for you,” Sierra shook her head. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“The letter from Sam did mention one name. Johnny Kyle,” Poke Morgan shook his head. Sierra saw her father tense up at the name. She knew of Kyle, knew that he owned one of the saloons that her father had used to frequent. It made her wonder.

“Caleb and I will take the buckboard to town and visit the store. We need supplies anyway,” Sierra shook her head. She had noticed that her father had made no effort to speak or act as if he would be the one to go into town. It made her feel ashamed. Because it hammered home a thing that she had been fighting not to see. Her father had become a coward.

“I appreciate it, Ma’am,” Poke Morgan smiled at her.

“I know,” Sierra sighed, her expression less than happy.

“You going to make us lunch first, girl?” Brock Lane looked at her.

“Paw, I reckon you can cut your own meat from the roast,” Sierra gave him a frosty look. His eyes narrowed for a moment in anger. Then he looked at the man called Poke Morgan and thought better of whatever had been on his mind. Caleb had seen it all and picked up his rifle, giving his father a hard look that did not go unnoticed by either of the men. He followed his sister out of the house.

Luke Derry ducked as an arrow flew over his head. He lifted his Winchester rifle and fired, dropping the attacking Apache from his saddle. The rest of Johnny Kyle’s men were doing their best to hug the ground as Derry stood and fired again and again. Finally the surviving Indians broke off the attack and fled among a great yipping and hollering. Luke Derry looked at the rest of the band with contempt. “They’re gone now,” Derry shook his head. “There ain’t no need to take that tone,” Joe Cotton said as he climbed to his feet and brushed the dust off his clothes.

“Why not? I didn’t see none of you doing anything to save our hair,” Derry loaded fresh rounds into his Winchester. He had already slipped the hammer thong off his Colt.

“What’s got you so hard on the prod, boy?” Dud Trembly stood a few feet away, his knees slightly bent, ready to go for his gun.

“Dud, you ain’t fast enough. I been hearing how rough as the cob you boys are and I ain’t seen nothing out of you yet,” Derry replied.

“Just what are you trying to say?” Dud’s voice was cold and brittle, like the ice cover on a stream.

“I’m saying you all do a lot of talking but I ain’t seen nothing to back it up,” Luke met Dud’s gaze unflinchingly.

“Boys, we just survived an Injun attack, let’s not go shooting each other up to celebrate,” Joe Cotton sighed.

“You got a point there, Joe. I guess at this point, it’s up to Dud,” Luke said softly.

“Aw, to hell with you both. Let’s skedaddle back to town and get a drink,” Dud Trembly shook his head. He appeared to relax and headed for his horse. Luke Derry kept an eye on him, but made it a point not to let Dud get behind him. Luke Derry didn’t trust his new companions any farther than he could throw his horse, but work was work. When he rode into Boulder Springs he didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Johnny Kyle had given him a job, as long as he wasn’t too particular about what he had to do…

“What do you reckon has got into Pa?” Caleb asked as the wagon drew near to Boulder Springs.

“What do you mean, Caleb?” Sierra concentrated on keeping the horses at a steady pace.

“Soon as he heard Johnny Kyle’s name he froze up,” Caleb said.

“You saw that too, did you?” Sierra looked at her brother.

“I did. So did Mr. Morgan,” Caleb shrugged. “Yes, he did. You like Mr. Morgan?” Sierra eyed her brother. Lord knew that the boy needed someone to look up to. Their father certainly hadn’t been much.

“I think Mr. Morgan and Colt Newby are a lot alike,” Caleb glanced over at her, knowing his sister’s face always turned red at the mention of the Texas Ranger.

“I don’t reckon you are wrong about that,” Sierra sighed.

“Morgan is a gunfighter ain’t he?” Caleb looked at her.

“Yes, he is,” Sierra sighed. Morgan’s profession had been evident when he had ridden in.

“You think Sam will be glad to know his cousin is here?” Caleb stretched.

“I believe so,” Sierra nodded.

Hudson Morgan kicked his horse to a trot. Poke had got word to him that their cousin Sam was in trouble. He had been in California when the letter had caught up to him. Hudson had spent most of his time in the mines digging gold, but there was a Morgan in trouble. That was enough. He had cashed in and headed back east to help his kin.

Hudson reached up and scratched his cheek. How long had it been since he had seen Poke or Sam? Years to say the least. Though not so long since he had seen Poke. They had run into each other up around Denver a few years back. Hudson smiled remembering the look on Uriah Spieglman’s face when they set his saloon on fire after he had tried to cause a cave in at the mine. That had been a right interestin’ night.

Hudson chuckled at the memory. Spieglman had been a back shooter and a trouble-maker from the word go. But he was sneaky about it. Which was how Spieglman had managed to get control of the mine called The Busted Flush. The mine owner had tried to cave it in before word got out among the miners that the mine had played out. He hadn’t succeeded.

Boulder Springs sounded like it might be a good place to light for a while. There might even be some color in the hills around the town. At any rate, it would be good to see his baby brother again, and his cousin.

Sierra Lane halted the wagon in front of the General Store that belonged to Sam Morgan. Caleb climbed down off the wagon, never once letting go of his rifle. Sierra couldn’t decide to smile or frown. Her baby brother was rapidly growing into a fine young man. She was danged if she would be the one to tell him that, however

Her blue eyes scanned the street, alert for any sign of danger. She knew that between herself and Caleb they could hold their own. Her hand slipped into the pocket of her skirt, taking comfort in the weight of the .32 revolver carried there. Together they stepped up onto the boardwalk and into the store.

Sam Morgan looked up when they entered, his expression one of surprise. “Howdy, Miss Lane, Caleb,” he nodded.

“Hello, Mr. Morgan. We need some supplies for the station,” Sierra smiled at him. Her eyes quickly scanned the interior of the store and she was pleased to see that she and Caleb were the only customers. She handed him the list of supplies. “We brought a message from your cousin Poke,” Sierra whispered.

“He’s here?” Sam looked into her eyes and Sierra thought that she detected a look of relief.

“At the station. He said you were having trouble with Johnny Kyle,” Sierra met his gaze.

“Yes,” Sam Morgan hung his head.

“Did Johnny Kyle have anything to do with what happened to Papa?” Sierra’s voice was as quiet as a whisper.

“He did,” Sam nodded. Just then the door opened and one of Kyle’s men walked into the store.

“I’ll leave you to fill the order then, Mr. Morgan. Caleb and I have some friends to call upon while we wait,” Sierra smiled. Sam Morgan nodded his relief to her. Sierra collected her brother on the way out. She did have a couple of friends she wanted to touch base with while she was in town. She hadn’t seen Hannah or Mary for several weeks.

Luke Derry had been giving some thought to his situation on the ride back to town. He had decided to draw his pay from Johnny Kyle and look for work on one of the cattle ranches near town. He didn’t like the other men working for Johnny Kyle any better than he liked the boss. He was getting more and more certain that Johnny Kyle was not the upstanding businessman that he pretended to be.

Kyle reminded him of a snake oil salesman, smooth up front but cold and emotionless as a rattlesnake ready to strike. Luke Derry took his hat off and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The late afternoon sun was hot beating down on them. Luke thought about just riding off away from the others. But there was the matter of what Kyle owed him. Let one man get away with not paying, others might think they could get away with it. It could get pretty ugly if that happened. No, he would ride on into Boulder Springs and see what developed.

Sam Morgan nervously filled the order for the Stagecoach station. Kyle’s man just leaned against the wall smirking at him. It was good to know that Poke had arrived, but what would Poke be able to do against Kyle’s gang. Sam shook his head, wondering what was going to happen.

“Don’t get to feeling to frisky now, shop keeper,” the man said, rolling a smoke with casual indifference.

“What?” Sam looked up, blinking his eyes.

“Your days are numbered unless you start doing what Mr. Kyle says,” the gunslinger struck a match on his belt buckle and lit his smoke. He blew out a stream of smoke towards Morgan.

“Johnny Kyle doesn’t own this store,” Sam glared at the man.

“Not yet,” the gunslinger laughed as he walked out the door. Sam thought about the shotgun he had beneath the counter, the barrels sawed off so it would fit. If only he had the courage to use it. Sam Morgan knew that he wasn’t cut from the same cloth as his cousins. He was too civilized while they had been born to the west and its ways.

Caleb and Sierra returned an hour later to pick up the supplies. A very subdued Sam Morgan loaded them into the wagon with Caleb’s help. Sierra paid him inside while Caleb watched over the wagon. “Poke will be along soon, Mr. Morgan,” Sierra whispered softly.

“The sooner the better,” Sam replied, his face pale. It was only a matter of time, Sam knew, before Johnny Kyle sent his people over to the store. Sierra nodded and walked out of the store. She climbed into the wagon and started the team of horses back towards the station.

“You tell him?” Caleb asked after they were out of town.

“I did,” Sierra looked at him.

“What did he say?” Caleb looked at her.

“The sooner the better,” Sierra sighed.

“Gonna be gun trouble in town then,” Caleb shook his head.

“Most likely,” Sierra nodded.

“You think it might spill over to the station?” Caleb scratched his head.

“It could,” Sierra nodded.

“Too bad your Ranger ain’t handy,” Caleb grinned a glint of humor in his eye.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Sierra sighed, not even noticing. She had a few thoughts of her own about Johnny Kyle. None of them good. The gambler was slick-faced and handsome, but he had always made her think of a snake oil salesman.

If only Colt Newby were around. Sierra had no doubt that the young Texas Ranger could make short work of the gambler Johnny Kyle. She shook her head. Kyle and his boys were nothing but trouble; that had been proved when they first moved into town.

Colt Newby knelt by the stream, cupping water in his hands and bringing it up o his face to drink. He had resigned from the Texas Rangers and was heading back to Comanche Station and Sierra Lane. He had done some checking and knew they could use a lawman in Boulder Springs. He figured that he was pretty well suited for the job.

Upholding the law was all he had ever done since he had gotten old enough. Before that he worked his family’s farm and punched cows. He figured to see if they needed a lawman in Boulder Springs. If not, he’d find a job punching cows so he could court Sierra Lane right and proper. She was a good woman and pretty enough to suit him, even if that chowder head father of hers didn’t realize it.

He had heard of some trouble fixing to happen near Boulder Springs, but nobody was willing to say what it might be. There was some who acted like they knew who might be behind it, but there were others who were more hesitant.

Colt figured to ride into town, keep his head down and his ears open. It pained him to avoid the station, but he didn’t want Sierra to worry about him.

“You know something about Johnny Kyle, don’t you?” Poke Morgan gave Brock Lane a hard look after the youngsters had headed for town.

“I know him. Don’t care much for him neither,” Brock Lane replied sullenly.

“He scares you, doesn’t he? Nothing to be ashamed of, from what I hear he scares a lot of people,” Morgan said softly.

“He had a gang of his men near beat me to death and dumped me in the road out near the gate. Took me a long time to recover from that,” Lane admitted softly. “Take a lot of men time to recover from something like that. One against a bunch ain’t the best of odds. You got two good kids there, Lane. Stand by them and they’ll stand for you,” Morgan told him.

“Maybe, maybe not. I ain’t done my best for them, and now I wonder if it isn’t too late,” Brock Lane shook his head.

“I set some store by what I seen in them kids, Lane. They both got sand, and the desire to stick it out. That’s what this country needs. It’s going to be rough out here for a while yet, but eventually it’ll get civilized,” Morgan told him.

“I hope you’re right. I owe them both for what I put them through after their Ma died. I lost it all then, and Sierra, she stepped up and became the grown up. I let them both down Morgan. I ain’t proud of it at all, but I done it,” Lane’s voice was nearly a whisper, choked with emotion.

“Let’s go get a cup of coffee and a slice of that roast Sierra mentioned,” Morgan said, slapping Lane on the back. The two men headed for the house.

Colt Newby rode into Boulder Springs from the west, pausing for a moment as he watched a wagon with two familiar looking forms heading out of town towards Comanche Station. He headed for the Mayor’s office. The current town marshal was a man named Stover and he was not well regarded around town. Colt had looked into his past before deciding on his course of action. He went in and asked to speak to the mayor. He was ushered in immediately.

“What may I do for you, Mr. Newby?” the Mayor asked. He was a nervous sort, constantly mopping his brow with a white handkerchief.

“I hear you ain’t exactly happy with your lawman. I used to be a Texas Ranger and I’m looking for a job,” Colt told him.

“Well Stover ain’t much but he’s what we got,” the Mayor smiled.

“You want to keep him?” Colt asked.

“Not necessarily,” the Mayor replied.

“Who does Stover answer to?” Colt asked.

“Whoever pays the most,” The Mayor replied. “Give me the job and I’ll take care of Stover,” Colt Newby told him.

“You have a deal,” The Mayor replied.

“You won’t regret it, Mr. Mayor. I aim to help make Boulder Springs a nice place to live,” Colt Newby grinned.

“I hope you’re right, Son. Just remember you also have to deal with Johnny Kyle and he likely won’t be near as easy as Stover,” Mayor Hank Lewis replied.

“Never figured he would be,” Colt said softly. He shook hands with the Mayor and headed out the door to the jail. It was time to start earning his pay.

The sun was shinning as Colt Newby walked down the street. He had business to attend to and despite what he had told the Mayor there was a damn good chance it could get ugly in a hurry.

The town was fairly quiet as he stepped up into the shade of the boardwalk. There wasn’t even a breeze blowing to stir the dust in the streets. The wooden boardwalk creaked under his boots as he approached the jail. The door was open. Colt slipped the hammer thongs off his twin Colt Russians before stepping through it.

Newby stepped quickly inside and to the left so he wouldn’t be silhouetted in the doorway. He spotted Stover easy enough. The former sheriff was leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk fast asleep. Colt Newby grinned.

Jory Stover was an older gent with a big belly and graying hair. A thick white mustache covered his lip and he snored really loud. His hat was tipped down over his eyes. Colt Newby walked up and slipped the badge from the man’s vest and pinned it to his own. Then he reared back his leg and kicked the chair away from the desk.

Jory Stover tumbled out of the chair onto the floor and Colt Newby kicked him in the guts. While the former Sheriff lay on the ground gasping for air, Colt removed his gun from his holster and removed the keys to the jail from his belt. “Jory Stover?” Colt Newby asked.

“Boy you just made a bad mistake,” Stover glared at him.

“You’re fired. Mayor Lewis appointed me the new Sheriff,” Colt said with authority. “The hell you say!” Stover yelled, slowly climbing to his feet.

“I do say,” Newby replied matter of factly.

“We’ll see about this,” Stover growled.

“With who? The Mayor or Johnny Kyle?” Newby asked coldly.

“HOW?” Stover shouted. Newby had a revolver in his fist leveled at the former Sheriff.

“It’s common knowledge, Stover that Kyle was paying you off. I’m giving you ‘til sundown to clear out of town. I see you after that, I’ll shoot you on sight,” Colt Newby ordered. Stover went pale as a ghost as he finally realized how close to dying he was.

“Fine, I’m gone. But if you think Johnny Kyle will back down, you got another think coming,” Stover warned.

“I guess I’ll burn that bridge when I cross it,” Colt Newby said. Stover staggered out of the jail and Colt Newby watched him go. It really didn’t surprise him that Stover headed for the livery and made no move to stop at Johnny Kyle’s saloon. No, Stover would light a shuck for someplace far away and not look back. Colt walked over and grabbed a greener from the gun rack and leaded his pockets with shells for the sawed off 16-guage double barreled shotgun. It was time to pay a visit to Johnny Kyle.

Hudson Morgan rode quietly into town. It was a quiet day and he hoped it stayed that way until he had a chance to get the lay of the land. He headed straight for the livery stable. He figured remaining anonymous for the moment would be a good thing and would give him the best chance of seeing what was what. He’d pay a visit to Sam later on and get the skinny on what was going on but wanted to scope it out for himself firsthand.

Hud knew he looked like a hard-scrabble drifter riding the grub line and he figured that might play in his favor. The rougher element in town might try to recruit him. That’d be right interesting. The Desert Flower Saloon looked to be the only watering hole in town so he rode up and looped his reins around the hitch rail outside, and headed for the batwing doors.

It was cooler inside but not by much. Hud moved right soon as he entered so as not to present himself as a target in the sunlight that backlit the door. He had been over the mountain and back a time or two and wasn’t about to fall for any greenhorn tricks. He had a feeling that this might be the place to get answers.

Sierra Lane had a funny feeling as they rode out of town. She shot a glance back over her shoulder and spotted a lone rider entering town from the other end. Something about the way he had sat his horse seemed familiar but she couldn’t quite place it. For the moment it didn’t really matter. She needed to get back to the station and let Poke Morgan know that his brother was in desperate trouble.

“Sis, I have a bad feeling that the trouble in town is going to spill over to the station,” Caleb said as they rode along.

“Why is that?” Sierra asked.

“Johnny Kyle ain’t the kind to let this go. He may not know we had anything to do with it, but he’ll suspect. Because of Pa if nothing else. Kyle’s had his eye on our place as well as you,” Caleb confided.

“Me?” Sierra was shocked. She had shown no interest in the smooth talking gambler.

“Case you ain’t noticed, Sis, for some reason known only to God above, men seem to find you attractive. Don’t see it myself but what the heck,” Caleb grinned at her.

“Brat!” Sierra spat at him, but her cheeks were rosy with blushing.

“I call it like I sees it,” Caleb laughed.

Poke Morgan was getting anxious. He had hoped that the girl and her brother were okay. He had hated sending them on ahead to scout, but he really hadn’t much choice in the matter. Sam was in trouble, but it wouldn’t do to ride in guns blazing and get killed for his trouble before he was able to help his cousin.

Brock Lane seemed to be a nice enough fella, but something about him gave Poke an itchy feeling between his shoulder blades. For one thing, he didn’t like the way the man acted around the kids. He had a feeling that the man wouldn’t hesitate to abuse either one of them if the notion struck him. Both the kids had sand, their father, not so much. Brock Lane was a coward and even admitted it. Poke was torn as to what to do. He sighed and rolled a smoke. Even as he lit up, he pondered what he would do next.

Johnny Kyle was sitting at a faro table when the stranger walked in. The man was rough in appearance but that made no difference in the Desert Flower. There was something slightly familiar about him but Kyle couldn’t figure out who the man reminded him of. The stranger approached the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey and downed it quickly, then ordered a beer chaser to follow it.

“Looking for a game?” Johnny Kyle called over to him. The saloon was mostly empty.

“Maybe, if it’s an honest one,” Hud Morgan replied bluntly.

“It is,” Johnny replied, narrowing his eyes at the implied insult. “My games are always honest.”

“Glad to hear it. In a lot of camps they aren’t,” Hud Morgan replied.

“Sounds like you spend a lot of time in the gold fields,” Kyle observed.

“I have,” Hud admitted.

“Have any luck?” Johnny looked at him

“Some,” Hud admitted.

“You flush now or looking for work?” Kyle asked as his fingers manipulated the cards.

“I’m always willing to listen,” Hud took a sip of his beer.

“I’m always looking for good men who can handle themselves when trouble starts,” Johnny Kyle told him.

“You have my attention,” Hud smiled.

Luke Derry was riding ahead of the others. He had no wish to talk to any of them and was in fact thinking of getting shut of the whole bunch. So far they had shot at a man and been attacked by Indians. And if it hadn’t been for his own actions, would have lost their scalps. He shook his head.

Luke Derry wanted a job that meant something. Something other than a leg-breaker and hired gun. Working for Johnny Kyle wasn’t getting it done. No, he wanted to be working on the right side of the law. Maybe he’d go see the sheriff when they got back to Boulder Springs.

Sierra Lane guided the wagon into the yard in front of the stage station. As she halted the team, Caleb jumped down and then began unloading the supplies just as quick. Her brother was such a hard worker, much more so than their father. She remembered her father before her mother’s death and he had at that time been a far different man.

Brock Lane had been brave and daring, willing to face up against any odds. But after their mother had died from the fever, all the life and fight had gone out of him. Brock Lane no longer gave a hot damn about his children or anyone else.

Sierra sighed. She climbed down from the wagon and went immediately to work helping her brother unload the wagon. She wondered why their father had not come out to greet them as Poke Morgan had done.

Poke Morgan jumped in and lent a hand unloading the supplies and got them quickly inside the station. He worked hard helping her and Caleb get things situated while their father remained absent. Finally she could contain herself no longer.

“Where’s Papa, Mr. Morgan?” Sierra asked, exasperation edging her tone.

“I don’t rightly know, Miss Sierra,” Morgan shook his head sadly.

“What do you mean?” Sierra asked.

“We had us a bit of a talk, then he went out to the barn, saddled a horse and rode out,” Morgan sighed.

“He didn’t say where he was going or when he might be back?”

“No, Ma’am. He didn’t say much of nothing,” Poke replied. The gunslinger had his own ideas about what was driving Brock Lane. The man had some demons eating at him for sure. But Morgan wasn’t sure he wanted to share his thoughts with the man’s daughter, though he was certain she had a good idea on her own.

“He ain’t much, Mr. Morgan, but he’s the only Pa we have. I don’t want nothing bad to happen to him, but he is one to court trouble and that is God’s truth,” Sierra sighed.

“For a fact some men are born to do that, most don’t make it long enough to raise good kids,” Morgan agreed.

“Thank God we had Ma for as long as we did,” Sierra sighed.

“Don’t think too poorly of him, girl, he wants to do what’s right but he ain’t sure how,” Morgan told her.

“That seems to be the story of his life,” Sierra said dryly.

“Faith is funny that way. They’s some men live by it, some try an live up to it, and some men have it but don’t know what to do with it. Your Pa strikes me as the latter kind of man.”

“I’ve never seen Pa have faith in anything more than a bottle.”

“See? At least he has faith in something.”

Stover staggered down the alley towards Johnny Kyle’s place. He couldn’t believe the brass balls of the kid that had thrown him out of the jail. Well he’d just see about that! What would the kid do if he went back, backed by some of Johnny Kyle’s men? Stover grinned, thinking that the kid wouldn’t be so cocky then!

Colt Newby watched as Stover ducked down an alley before he reached the livery stable. Newby figured it was a good bet that he had turned towards Johnny Kyle’s Saloon. It wouldn’t be long now before somebody came along to give him a try and see if he was as tough as Stover was claiming. Stover would likely take the opportunity to put a bullet in his back if he got the chance.

Colt loaded up his vest pockets with extra shells for the 16-guage scattergun and made sure a couple were chambered before he stepped out the door. The town could almost be deserted from all he saw as he walked down the street towards the Desert Flower Saloon. Small puffs of dust rose with every step. His heartbeat was steady as he walked. The stillness of the air almost made it seem like the town was holding its breath. Jory Stover stepped out of the saloon, a six-gun belted around his waist. Two more men stepped out behind him. Their coats were tucked back behind their holsters and they were smiling in anticipation of what was to come. Colt smiled too, feeling the wildness rise up in him.

“I’m disappointed, Stover. I told you to get gone,” Colt shifted the greener to his left hand, the hammer thong off his right hand gun.

“I ain’t believing that the mayor fired me. These gents don’t believe it either,” Stover called back, his courage bolstered by a couple of shots of whiskey and the presence of the two gunslingers behind him.

“Too bad,” Colt said and he opened the dance, tilting the muzzle of the Greener towards them and pulling the triggers. Stover was blown clean in half and the fella on his right screamed as buckshot ripped into his chest. Colt was already moving, drawing his revolver and triggering two quick rounds into the gunslinger’s chest and dropping him before he could even clear leather. Colt holstered his pistol and reloaded the shotgun as the man named Johnny Kyle stepped out onto the boardwalk.

“You made a bit of a mess here,” Kyle regarded him over a half- smoked cigar.

“I’m the new Sheriff, Mr. Kyle. I’m putting you on notice,” Colt met his gaze without blinking.

“I guess you have,” Kyle said stiffly.

“Count on it. Things are gonna be changing around Boulder Springs.”

“Perhaps,” Kyle whispered, taking another puff on the cigar and blowing out smoke.

Colt Newby waited until Johnny Kyle went back inside the Desert Flower Saloon before walking back up the street to the Sheriff’s office. He had sent a couple of boys to get the undertaker to clean the bodies off the street. He wanted them to lay there on display for a short time to send a message to Kyle and his men. Several riders came in during his walk, all but one of them heading for the Desert Flower. The lone rider that didn’t went to the livery stable.

Colt entered the jail, the Greener re-loaded and ready. He laid the shotgun on the desk and checked the cells. They were all, for the moment empty. That wouldn’t last he was sure. A moment later the door opened and the lone rider walked in. Colt tilted the muzzle of the shotgun in his direction. “Can I help you?” he asked, grinning.

“I hope so. I’m looking for a job. Since Stover ain’t Sheriff no more, I figured you might be in need of a deputy,” the young cowboy shrugged.

“You got a name?” Colt asked, sizing the kid up.

“Luke Derry,” the kid replied.

“From down along the Rio Grande?” Colt asked.

“I rode a few trails down there.”

“I imagine you have. I’ve heard of you.”

“Only good things I hope,” the kid replied.

“For the most part. Except lately I hear you’ve been running with Johnny Kyle’s boys,” Colt said.

“Only long enough to know they ain’t for me. I want a straight job on the right side of the law. Working for Johnny Kyle ain’t gonna get me that.”

“No it won’t. How do you figure Johnny will take the news that you’re working for me?”

“I reckon he ain’t gonna be pleased but for that matter I don’t give much of a damn what he thinks,” Luke Derry shrugged.

“I reckon you don’t,” Colt nodded. “Okay, you got a job as deputy.”

“I won’t let you down,” Luke replied.

“I reckon you won’t,” Colt nodded. Truth be told he was glad for the help. Things were coming to a head in Boulder Springs and Colt Newby knew he needed all the help he could get.

Johnny Kyle was furious as he stepped back inside the Desert Flower. His face was red with rage. Hud Morgan grinned into his beer. That kid that had taken over for the sheriff had what it took. Kyle looked over at him as he stormed back to the bar.

“Get rid of him,” Kyle snarled.

“Who?” Hud asked.

“The Sheriff, that’s who,” Kyle snarled.

“Killing a lawman is serious,” Hud replied.

“It is. Thing is, I don’t really give a damn about this sheriff,” Kyle snarled.

“So you say,” Hud took another drink of his beer.

“You saying different?” Kyle glared at him.

“Nope. I’m just saying you need to be a mite careful of pointing fingers,” Hud replied.

“The hell you say.”

“ No, Mr. Kyle, the hell you say,” Hud replied, his Colt out of the holster and touching Johnny Kyle’s Belly. “I ain’t a man that likes to be pushed and you come back in here with a mad on looking to take it out on somebody. I ain’t the man you want to try it with.”

“Perhaps not. My apologies sir,” Johnny Kyle said; his face pale. He realized how close he was to collecting a bullet in his gut and that was a painful way for a man to die. It was bad enough the new kid had gone over to the new Sheriff’s side.

“I don’t reckon I care much for you, Kyle. So I’ll be taking my leave of your establishment. Thanks for the drink,” Hud Morgan said as he backed out the door, his pistol still leveled at Johnny Kyle’s gut.

The gambler swore a blue streak as he watched the drifter leave. Things were spinning out of control and he had to get a handle on them or everything would be lost!

Hud Morgan holstered his gun before climbing on his horse and heading down the dusty street. He angled towards the sheriff’s office. He liked the young man’s style and wanted a word with him before he stopped at his cousin’s store.

He tied his horse to the hitch rail and stepped up onto the boardwalk. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He knocked on the door.

“Who’s there?” called a voice from inside.

“Name’s Morgan. I saw you stand Johnny Kyle down and I liked what I saw. Can I come in?”

“C’mon in and keep your hands where I can see them.”

“I’m coming in,” Hud called and he opened the door and stepped inside. The Sheriff had a double barreled shotgun aimed at his middle.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Morgan?” the Sheriff asked.

“You can aim that thing another direction if you don’t mind,” Hud replied with a grin. “You got a name Sheriff?”

“Colt Newby, Mr. Morgan. Again, what can I do for you?”

“Well Colt I came because my cousin was having trouble with Johnny Kyle. I figure since you stood up to Kyle, we may be on the same side. How are you fixed for deputies?”

“Well I just hired Luke here, but I reckon a second deputy might help out a bit,” Colt grinned, lowering the hammers on the shotgun.

“My cousin Poke is around somewhere too. I figure he wants a piece of Johnny Kyle as bad as I do. I could have put a bullet in his guts a few minutes ago but I didn’t. Figured it would be best for the law to deal with him.”

“You figured right, Morgan. You still want the job it’s yours,” Colt nodded.

“I’ll take it,” Hudson Morgan replied.

Brock Lane sighed. He wasn’t sure where he was going or what he was going to do. He figured Sierra was doing a right fine job of running the station. She really didn’t need his help, and Caleb was damn near a growed man at age fourteen. Lots of boys his age was already married and raising families. He set store by both them kids, but he never seemed able to show it.

He had been a piss poor excuse for a father and provider since his wife died. If he were to leave now, would his children even miss him? Or would they just write him off as a poor man that had failed them yet again? His thoughts turned to Johnny Kyle. Johnny Kyle had stolen what little self-respect that he had left. Brock Lane needed that back. If he had some self-respect, he might well be able to become once again a man that his children could respect. The only way he could manage that would be to stand up to Johnny Kyle.

Brock Lane nodded his head. That made up his mind. He had to kill Johnny Kyle. That was the only way he could face his children again. He turned the horse towards Boulder Springs…

Poke Morgan saddled his horse and turned to find Sierra Lane watching him. “I reckon it’s time I rode on into town,” he told her.

“I thought as much, Mr. Morgan. I guess I was hoping you might stick around until Pa came back but I see that isn’t to be,” Sierra replied.

“No, Sierra, it is not. I can’t say what might happen with your pa. I know he loves you kids, but he feels like he ain’t a man no more. Not since that beating he took from Johnny Kyle and his men. He thinks you look down on him because of that,” Poke Morgan told her.

“Maybe I do, sir. But the thing of it is, Pa ain’t acted like much of a man in a long time. It would be nice to see him grow a little backbone again,” Sierra replied.

“Even if he dies doing it?” Poke Morgan met her gaze.

“Leastwise then he might feel like a man again. Something like that, I figure is important to Pa,” Sierra shrugged.

“You might be right about that,” Poke nodded.

“I reckon he’ll do what he needs to do, whatever the consequences are for us. He hadn’t paid us much mind in a long time,” Sierra shook her head.

“You might be wrong about that, Girl. Your Pa, he’s a man of conviction. Give him credit for that at least,” Poke told her.

“I do, Poke. But I also know his weaknesses,” Sierra lowered her head.

“I ain’t saying he don’t have ‘em. I’m just saying you might have to be strong for him,” Poke told her.

“I’ve been strong for him for a long time,” Sierra sighed.

“I reckon you have. You just gotta ask yourself, can you do it a little longer.”

“I’ll try but I won’t make no promises,” Sierra told him.

“I’d never ask for no more than that,” Poke Morgan nodded.

Brock Lane turned his horse and headed for town. He had thought about Mexico, but then he thought about his kids. He couldn’t just leave them like that, without so much as a word. He took a deep breath and let it out slow. It was time, he thought. Time to face Johnny Kyle and get his manhood back. He kicked his horse into a gallop towards town.

Johnny Kyle tossed back a shot of whiskey, his anger was boiling near the surface. Things had been going so well and then suddenly Stover got kicked out of office and now was dead along with a pair of his gunmen. Then that no-account drifter backed him down. He was loosing it. The shit was dropping on him like rain. He looked over at Joe Cotton.

“Joe,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah boss?” Cotton replied, looking up from his beer.

“Take the boys and burn the store to the ground. I’m damned tired of Sam Morgan,” Johnny Kyle said.

“What about the Sheriff?” Cotton asked.

“If he gets in the way, kill him. I’m taking over this damned town,” Johnny Kyle announced loudly.

“I’ll get the boys,” Joe Cotton nodded.

Sam Morgan looked up as the door opened and a cowboy walked in. He looked familiar but Sam didn’t recognize him. “Can I help you?”

“I reckon Sam, you sent for me,” Poke Morgan grinned at his cousin.

“Poke? Is that you?” Sam Morgan asked, sighing with relief.

“It is, Sam. Didn’t Sierra Lane give you my message?”

“She did. I guess I just wasn’t ready for you to ride in yet.”

“You want me to leave?” Poke grinned at him.

“Hell no,” Sam shook his head. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Poke looked out the window of the store. He saw five men walking towards it from the saloon. “Looks like trouble is coming our way,” Poke observed.

“Them are Kyle’s men,” Sam said looking at the faces.

“I guess it’s time to open the dance. You got a greener in here?” Poke asked.

“Yep and a handful of shells,” Sam replied.

“Give ‘em to me,” Poke said. Sam complied.

“Sheriff we got men heading towards the general store,” Luke Derry called from the door of the jail.

“You know ‘em?” Colt Newby asked.

“They work for Johnny Kyle and they look ready for trouble,” Luke replied.

“I reckon we ought to go see what’s going on,” Colt replied.

“I reckon we should,” Hud Morgan nodded.

Colt Newby stood and grabbed a Winchester repeating rifle from the rack. Hud Morgan grabbed another and Luke Derry took a Greener 16-guage shotgun. The three men started up the street towards the general store.

Brock Lane saw the men in the street and moved into an alley that would lead him to the back door of The Desert Flower Saloon. He smiled to himself. Johnny Kyle’s men were all headed for the general store which meant that the Gambler was all alone. Brock Lane drew the pistol from its holster and thumbed back the hammer. It was time for him to face Johnny Kyle!

Dud Trembly, Pete Morris, Joe Cotton and Mike Lucas crossed the street. “You see them?” Dud asked.

“I do, the new sheriff and damned if that ain’t Luke Derry siding with him. I knew there was something about that kid I didn’t like,” Pete Morris snarled.

“Dud, we may just have our hands full,” Joe Cotton observed.

“We might, Joe. But Johnny wants that store burned to the ground. You want to go tell him we didn’t do it cause the sheriff was coming?”

“I can’t say that I do, Dud. Johnny’s gone over the edge today.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Dud shook his head.

“You boys bad-mouthing the boss?” Mike Lucas asked coldly.

“No Mike, just making a personal observation,” Joe told him. “Even you gotta admit he’s acting a bit squirrely.”

“I do,” Mike nodded.

Just then the front door of the store opened and a shotgun blast lifted Mike Lucas off his feet and spread him across the street! Dud drew his pistol and poured fire into the store as another blast of buckshot cut the air above him while he dropped to the dusty street.

“Looks like somebody else opened the dance,” Colt Newby said as he lifted his rifle and fired. Joe Cotton spun away, his pistol flying from his hand. Luke Derry fired and Pete Morris tumbled over into the dirt. Hud Morgan fired at the same time as his cousin and Dud lay still. A single shot sounded from The Desert Flower and the four survivors ran towards the saloon ready for anything!

Johnny Kyle stood there, smoking revolver in his hand. Brock Lane lay on the floor, blood spreading from a hole in his chest as Colt Newby stepped through the doors; Winchester leveled at his chest. “Put it down, Kyle,” Colt Newby told him.

“He tried to kill me, it was self defense,” Kyle looked at the new Sheriff.

“Maybe so, but burning Sam Morgan’s store wasn’t. Put the gun down real slow or I swear I’ll blow your heart from your chest,” Colt told him.

“I never try to buck a full house,” Kyle put the gun on the bar and stepped away from it. Hud Morgan moved in and secured his hands behind him.

“I suspect you’re gonna hang, Kyle. Your days as a boss around here are over,” Colt Newby told him.

Sierra Lane and her brother stood along side their father’s grave. Colt Newby was at her side and so was Poke Morgan. Colt had his arm around her shoulders and Sierra took a good measure of comfort from that, glad that her Texas Ranger was now the law in Boulder Springs.

“He did what he thought was right,” Poke Morgan said softly.

“He did try. Pa was a man who tried, he just didn’t try his best,” Sierra wiped back a tear.

“He done what he could,” Caleb sighed.

“Now he’s gone,” Sierra whispered.

“He’d been gone for a long time, sis,” Caleb said.

“Except this time he won’t ever be back,” Sierra said.

“Nope he won’t, but you got me,” Colt told her.

“There is that,” Sierra nodded as the wind whipped at her blonde hair. Tell us what you think about the story. Write [email protected]

Tate Sims watched from a bluff high above as his target knelt alongside a small creek, then bent over the water, cupped his hands, and dipped them into the stream. Sims lifted his rifle to his shoulder, aimed carefully, and fired. His target arched in pain when Sims’ bullet ripped into his back, then collapsed face-down into the creek. Sims gave a grunt of satisfaction, laid down his rifle, and scrambled down the steep bluff. He was an extremely handsome man, the scion of a wealthy Philadelphia banking family. Sims had been on his way to a life of luxury and ease, until he killed Jackson Holcomb, his rival for the hand of Mary Louise Hart, in an illegal duel. Forced to flee Pennsylvania, Sims discovered he enjoyed killing, and was very good at it. There was a string of corpses from Ohio through the Midwest and into the Wyoming and Dakota Territories as testimony to his skill. The Lakota Sims had just shot had been leading a string of ponies, horses which would bring Sims a good chunk of cash from the miners of Deadwood. Once he’d sold the horses, Sims planned to spend several days drinking, gambling, and whoring. His good looks assured he would never lack for feminine company. Unfortunately for the women who fell for his charms, or were available for his cash, Sims had an extreme streak of cruelty. Very few of his consorts escaped unscarred, or even alive. Sims reached his victim, pulled him from the water, then rolled him onto his back. To his surprise, the Indian was still alive, despite the bullet which had torn through his back, angled downward, and exited from low in his belly, leaving a large exit wound. The dying Sioux glared at Sims, then muttered several words. ““Ah, shut up, ya lousy redskin,” Sims said, with an oath. He pulled the Bowie knife from his belt and plunged it into the Indian’s belly, slicing it open and disemboweling him. Sims proceeded to scalp the Lakota, then ripped open his deerskin trousers, cut off the man’s privates, and tossed them into the creek. ““Reckon that takes care of you, Indian,” he said. “Now to get outta here.” Sims made certain the dead Lakota’s horses were still secured to the trees where they’d been tied, then climbed back up the bluff to retrieve his rifle and own bay gelding. He got the rifle, shoved it back in the saddle boot, then climbed into the saddle. He raked the bay cruelly with his spurs, sending it plunging down the bank. Swiftly, not wanting to remain near the mutilated corpse of the Lakota, which was already gathering flies, he tied the leads of the dead man’’s horses together, looped the lead horse’s rope over his saddlehorn, got back into the saddle and spurred his horse into a lope, the Indian ponies strung out behind. Sims rode for an hour before, with dusk coming on, he decided to camp for the night. Deadwood was two days ride off, so since he’d found a good campsite, one with plenty of cover, grass for the horses, and water for them and himself, he figured it wasn’t worth pushing on after sundown. After unsaddling his horse, then settling him, along with the stolen ponies, into a rope corral where they could browse, Sims built a fire, then cooked his bacon and beans. He was hunkered against a rock, savoring a cup of coffee, when he noticed two yellowish eyes staring at him from the darkness. ““G’wan, get outta here, you!” Sims yelled. He picked up a loose rock and chunked it at the creature. With a low growl, it turned and ran off. ““That was a wolf!” Sims exclaimed. “Strange the fire didn’’t bother it. Even weirder the horses didn’t seem to take notice of it. Oh, well, I’d best get some shut-eye.” Sims tossed out the dregs of his coffee, pulled off his boots and hat, spread out his blankets, and rolled into them. Within five minutes, untroubled by the killing and mutilation of the Lakota, he fell into a sound sleep. 2 The next day. Sims had been riding for almost the entire morning, when he sensed a presence behind him. He turned in the saddle to see a large gray wolf trailing him, just about two hundred yards back. ““Can’t be the same one from last night, could it?” he murmured. “Nah, that’s impossible. No wolf would, or could, trail someone that long.” Sims pulled his horse to a halt, then removed his Winchester from its boot. He turned in the saddle, aimed, and fired. His bullet struck the wolf squarely in the chest, the impact knocking it backwards, head over rump, blood spurting. With a yelp, the animal struggled for a moment, then lay still. ““That takes care of you,” Sims said, sliding his rifle back into place. He kicked his horse into a lope once again. Two hours later, Sims realized another wolf was trailing him and the horses, this one only one hundred yards behind. ““Can’t be!” he half-screamed. Beginning to panic, he dug his spurs deep into his bay’s flanks, putting the animal into a dead run. He kept the horses at that pace until they were ready to drop from exhaustion. Sims rode at a walk the rest of the day, the only steady pace the worn-out horses could maintain. Finally, convinced the second wolf had only been a figment of his imagination, he stopped for the night, just past sundown. The horses were given a ration of grain from the small sack of oats he carried, allowed to graze for a short while, given a drink, then tied to a picket line strung between two tall, sturdy pines. Satisfied they were secured for the night, Sims settled to his own supper. This time, despite telling himself he had nothing to fear from wolves, Sims built a large campfire, and kept adding logs to it, wanting it to burn brightly for the entire night. He turned at the sound of a wolf’s low growl. He saw the animal’s yellow eyes staring at him, then it broke into a howl, immediately panicking the horses. The terrified animals pulled free from the picket line and galloped into the night. Sims leapt to his feet, cursing. He pulled his six-gun from its holster and emptied it in the wolf’s direction. The animal yelped, turned tail, and ran. ““Now what?” Sims muttered. He was afoot, and still more than a day from Deadwood. Well, he was resourceful. He’d start walking toward town, then, the first rider he’d come across he would kill, and take the man’’s horse. Sometimes, having no compunction about killing could be to a man’’s great advantage. 3 The next day, Sims began walking, along a fairly well- traveled road which would bring him to Deadwood. He fully expected to meet another person before an hour was out. Today, however, the road was strangely empty. Sims trekked for several miles, his feet now sore and blistered. The sun beat down on him, soaking him with sweat and adding to his misery. Sims had traversed a steep section of the road, and reached the top of a ridge. Both sides of the road were bordered by steep cliffs, drops of at least a hundred feet or more. ““Got to rest my feet,” he muttered. Sims sat on a boulder alongside the road, pulled off his boots, and began to rub his blistered, bloodied feet. It was then that a low growl again caught his attention. Unbelieveably, a large wolf was staring at him, unblinking, its gaze seeming to go right through him. ““No!” Sims screeched “No! It ain’t possible!”” His eyes widened in terror when the wolf slowly advanced toward him, crouching in its hunting stalk. ““No!” Sims screamed yet again. “Get away from me!” In abject terror, he rose to his feet, and started backing away from the animal. The wolf kept coming. Sims kept backing, now completely unaware of the drop behind him…… until, with a scream, he toppled over the edge, his body bouncing and tumbling off the cliff face until it brokenly landed on the rocks far below.

The wolf, panting, turned and disappeared back into the forest. And the spirit of a murdered Lakota named Gray Wolf was finally at rest.

Write [email protected] (©2012 by Robert E. Kennedy)

This is the third story of a man on a collision course with destiny. If you have not, the author suggests that you read his earlier exploits befroe starting this tale. First is "How The Name Came" in Pulp Spirit #4, then "The Secret of The Aero Plane" from issue #12.

He climbed down from the plane into the heat and humidity of yet another island in the Pacific. They all looked the same. Men and machines hurrying in all directions. An airstrip scraped free of anything green. Machine gun emplacements and anti-aircraft pieces pointed into the sky. Men with binoculars scanning the edge of the vegetation for sign of troops or snipers. Then he realized that the observers seemed to be pointing their instruments somewhat above the tree line. He puzzled on that as he headed for the airfield's operations Quonset hut. Sweat began to run down his back under his khakis. And he wondered about this high speed reassignment. What was so special about the island called Tinian?

In a few ways this felt a little like a homecoming. He'd hopped to a couple of islands with his old Army Air Corps unit. But not to anything on the scale of this operation. Some said Tinian would become the largest coordinated set of airfields in the world.

After completing Major Henderson's initial assignment to check out the legendary Captain Aero, he'd ended up as the Weird War Board's mobile trouble shooter for the Pacific Theater of Operations. He constantly seemed headed somewhere to check out some sort of wild story. Most hadn't panned out. But the few that did tended to give him nightmares.

Now he'd been diverted to Tinian. But why? Sure the place was important. The new B-29 Super-Fortress bombers could reach Japan from here. But not seemingly important enough, or bizarre enough to involve the W.W.B.

He noticed some of the airmen he passed do double-takes at the Brit patches on his shoulders. That was nothing new. Off to his right he made out an officer followed by two Military Policemen. He sighed inwardly. He made no move to change his course. Fifteen steps later the officer saw him. Now the fellow led the MP's at double-time straight for him. He continued walking toward Operations.

"Hold up there!" came the yell.

He looked in the direction of the party of three. Calmly he pointed to himself and raised his shoulders in question.

"Yes you, dammit!" The officer hurried up to stop squarely in front of him. "Where the blazes do you think you're going?" huffed the slightly out of breath Major.

"I'm going to Operations to report in. Per the instructions I received from the crew of the ship that flew me in. And nobody on the ground contradicted those instructions."

"Nobody goes anywhere without first going through the Intelligence Office. And, aside from that, I could have you in the Guardhouse for being in improper uniform."

He caught himself before he rolled his eyes. He also noticed one of the MP's, a Corporal, trying not to smile. His instructions included the words "with all speed." Therefore he decided against turning the other cheek.

"Major," he began in a calm voice. "If I missed being informed about local procedures, I apologize. The flight crew told me to go directly to Operations after receiving some sort of transmission concerning my trip. In regard to my uniform, however, you are out of line. We are the same rank. But you couldn't be bothered to ask if the flashes on my shoulders are authorized. They are. And by people above the rank of anybody stationed on this island." He paused to reach inside the breast pocket of his uniform blouse. As he did he saw the Corporal trying hard not to break out laughing. He held out a mimeographed sheet. "Here is the authorization for those flaming flashes. Now, you and your detail, are welcome to accompany me to Operations. Maybe I'll be told to go to your Intelligence Office. Maybe not. But I will follow the instructions I received unless you try to restrain me. Good day."

By the time he finished speaking the other major reached the end of the Special Order sheet. The other man's eyes popped open at the signature. The newcomer stepped around him with a wink to the Corporal. He casually beckoned the two MP's to follow him.

"You fellows can keep an eye on me. That a problem?"

"No, sir! Of course not, sir. Not a problem at all." replied the Corporal trying not to laugh as he spoke.

Just then a nearby loudspeaker trumpeted one word, "INCOMING!" The Corporal tackled him. Right before slamming on the rough stone pathway, he caught a glimpse as something impacted a few feet from the other Major. Sound washed over him, but not like an explosion. He heard shrapnel whistling overhead.

Then he caught a glimpse of a small sphere whizzing by at about one hundred feet up. Before he could blink the thing dived into the ground almost a quarter mile towards the parked bombers. Not a second later, another flying sphere smashed through the fuselage of a C-47. And emerged from the other side to roll around on the hardpan.

Two more spheres flashed overhead to land even further into the complex of runways. As the fifth one crashed down the Corporal let him go.

"Clear, Major," the MP said rising. "There are never more than five. That's the closest I've been to the damn things. Too blessed close." "Thanks, Corporal. Let's go check the other Major. I think he was pretty close to the first impact."

They hurried back the way they came. The other Major's unfocused eyes were open. He reflexively tried to staunch the flow of blood from at least five wounds.

He tossed his pocket knife to the MP's saying, "Get him patched up. Use his own uniform if you have to. I want a look at the impact site."

"Careful, sir. Those things can be red hot."

"Understood."

The crater turned out to be bowl shaped. It measured about eighteen inches across. A piece of something rested at the bottom. Radiated heat bathed his face even before he squatted down. He brought his hand as close to the semi-melted chunk of apparent rock as he dared. He forced the hand to hold still as long as he could. He felt something besides heat before he snatched it back. A feeling he knew all too well. He rose to walk back to his companions.

"I guess he turned to follow us just before the thing hit," said the Corporal. "Seems pretty dazed, but the wounds are superficial. 'Cept for a piece that slipped between his ribs. Thomas, flag down that team with the litter. Have 'em get him to the hospital. When you're back I'll escort this gentleman to Ops."

As they waited, he asked, "How often does this happen?"

"Sorry, sir. We're not supposed to talk to anybody about this from outside our own team."

"Understood, Corporal. But I'm betting this is what I was diverted to look into. If that turns out to be the case, please be thinking about the people who have the most first hand experience with whatever this is. I'll get the official line and any scientific data from the Brass here. But the soldier's and airmen's point of view can be just as important. Got it?"

"Got it, sir. And one of them will be me. You get the authorization. I'll round up whatever you need." +++

Less than an hour later he sat with Tinian's commanding general in a guarded, not to mention soundproofed, office. He declined the offer of a cigar, but accepted the coldest bottle of Coca-Cola he'd encountered in a year.

"Major, we were informed that your organization would try to get us some help posthaste. And it's a good thing for you that I've bumped into the Weird War Board before. Had to do with super-sized squid. Still gives me nightmares. That means I know you men get results. But I'm curious as to what you might bring to the table that my command doesn't already have on hand."

"Two things, really, sir," he replied. "First, I'm about half a thesis and less than ten credit hours away from a Masters Degree in Physics and Electricity. And probably more important, I have about as open a mind as possible. I won't throw out any idea simply because it's new, strange, or different. Or because somebody with scrambled eggs on their hat might not want to believe it. Now, who can fill me in on the facts of these attacks? And all the data your folks have collected, so far..." +++

"Here we are," said Lieutenant-Colonel Channing, as they stepped into a mostly empty Quonset hut. "This building was finished the day before the first attack. The very first round smashed through the end wall. (I had a tarp put over it to keep the rain out.) Made quite a mess over in that corner. With the damage and injuries along the flight-line, nobody noticed the hole in the wall until after the third attack. Then we went looking for the missing fifth impact.

"We had our water purification team and some other men with experience in chemistry run what tests they could. Nothing poisonous was detected. And nobody's gotten mysteriously sick since this started. Our resident rockhound claims the projectiles are volcanic basalt."

"What about testing for radiation?" he asked. "Ionizing radiation. Like with Radium. It takes some time, but that stuff can cause sickness, and even death."

Channing frowned. He paused before replying. "That was checked. Nothing significant. Sorry, but I'm not allowed to say more."

"Don't feel bad, sir. This strange bombardment has got to be threatening something beyond a new bomber base. Now, here's what I want to do.

"First get the senior NCO of your photography operation down here. Photographic film can be used to test for most dangerous radiation. If this hut tests clean, I'd like to use it as my office. "Second, I need copies of every report that even mentions these attacks. Including medical reports on the casualties. And those charts of the impacts you mentioned? I'd like them moved to wherever I set up shop.

"Finally, I'll need the help of two men. First, somebody in Operations. A fellow who sees just about everything that goes through there. One who can sort out anything remotely related to this fine kettle of fish, then pass both the raw data and any speculation about it on to me. Every major command I've ever been to has somebody like that. Then I'd like to have Corporal Wilson, the MP who escorted me to Ops, assigned to me. I need someone who knows the ins and outs of this base."

"Very well, Major. I know just the person in Ops. But you should know we have much more experienced investigators than Cpl. Wilson."

"Colonel," he replied, "I'm a very hands-on person. I'll do as much of the legwork as I can. And I may ask for more help. Then experienced investigators will be a Godsend. But I've seen Cpl. Wilson in action. The word 'Incoming' was still roaring out of the loudspeaker when he flattened me. And you can bet he knows things about this place that never go on the record. Plus he doesn't have enough rank to have the troops worried about talking to him off the record. And I get the idea that damn few people intimidate him. We'll make a good team. Now, about that chow you mentioned..." +++

By the following morning sheets of photographic print paper and negatives left in and around the Quonset hut's crater had been developed. With not the slightest sign of radiation. He sent Wilson on a scrounging mission for desks, big tables, and a couple of bunks. While he waited he read even more of the stacks of papers that seemed to arrive every few minutes.

"'Scuse me, sir." He turned to see a steel pot with an age lined face below it sticking inside the partially opened door. There was a bug with a machine-gun painted on the helmet.

"What can I do for the SeaBee's, Chief?"

"'S more what we can do for you, sir. Ran into that young MP working for you. Said you needed a big map table or two. An' that you're lookin' into the flaming rock throwers. Hope that wasn't supposed to be confidential, sir."

He smiled a bit. "Nothing secret about the investigation, Chief. All and sundry are going to be seeing me getting my hands dirty with this mess. I sure could use a couple of sheets of plywood. Preferably fairly smooth on one side and some sawhorses. And any information your people have about the attacks. By the way, do you have any kind of hardness testing gear?"

"There's some of those gadgets at our HQ. And a green as grass Ensign just out of M.I.T. that loves 'em. Or so I hear. But sawhorses are part of our Issue Toolset. We'll cobble something together outta scrap just as good. An one more thing, sir. Three days ago we had a spinning miter saw take a direct hit from one of those rocks. Cut up Sam Posey pretty bad. But Sam's Squad Leader used to work accidents for an insurance company. Soon as the Corpsmen hauled Sam off he marked off the area with stakes and sketched the whole scene. I been holding what's left of the saw to maybe salvage some parts. Ya want to get a look at all that?"

"You're damn right I do, Chief! Thanks a lot. Always great to have any branch's Engineers around to help out. Let me grab my hat."

+++

He sat under the tin roof of a SeaBee work area studying the mess and the markers of the flying rock's passage. He ignored the pounding and the roaring of the equipment. The din seemed almost as loud as a flight-line at takeoff. He did not know someone approached until a hand fell on his shoulder. He turned to find a worried looking Cpl. Wilson.

"Sir, please come with me. An eyewitness is about to leave the island. I've got a jeep."

Pausing only to yell a thank you to the SeaBee's, he vaulted into the jeep. Wilson floored the gas before he finished settling in the seat. "Why the rush?" he asked.

"This fellow, Lance, got the closest look at one of those things of anybody that lived to tell the tale. Only the wrong person heard him. The head shrinker at the hospital's runnin' him out on a Section Eight. The ship taking the wounded to Hawaii’s leaving in less than two hours."

"Why in the hell would he do that? And so fast?"

"You don't know Dr. Richards, sir," said Wilson as he dodged around a parked deuce-and-a-half. "Ivy League and Ivory Tower. Can't possibly be wrong. Got all the flexibility of an egg shell. Just between us, sir, he's called Dr. Rigid behind his back. Its got so bad us MP's quit taking troops pulled in for blowing off steam for a medical check. Unless they're about to die. Dr. Rigid sees 'em they get shipped home with their life ruined. In this war everybody needs to blow off steam, somehow." +++ Two minutes later the jeep almost slid to a halt at the side of a complex of Quonset huts and GP-large tents. Wilson led him through a maze of shortcuts to the entrance of a tent marked "Out-Processing."

"Hi there, Caulkins. The Major here needs to talk to Private Lance. Part of an investigation."

"Sorry, Willie. Lance's jacket says he's not to talk to anyone but staff."

He couldn't believe his ears. He counted to three, quickly. "Corpsman, I'm here on business for the island's commander. Now lead me to Private Lance. Or stay out of my way."

"Sir, I let you in Dr. Richards will try to have me Court-Marshaled. Now, if Cpl. Wilson were to restrain me..." +++

Three minutes later he talked to Private-First-Class Lance when a commotion broke out at the front of the tent. Then a small flying wedge advanced across the tent towards him. Leading the charge was a man with a lab coat and stethoscope over his Navy uniform.

"How dare you disobey my patient instructions?!" yelled the red faced officer.

"Commander, I am investigating the recent attacks on this facility. Private Lance may have important information about them."

"This individual is in no way reliable. He hallucinates. His branch of service will be better without him."

"Because he saw something you can't explain? And now you don't have the common courtesy to use his name. No wonder they call you Dr. Rigid around there."

"That is quite enough. Corporal! Take this man into custody." "With all due respect, sir," began Wilson as he fought to keep his face all business. "You are not in my chain-of-command. Currently I report to the Major here. And he only reports to the General. Should you wish to prefer charges against the Major I can take a report..." As the outraged doctor drew in a large breath Wilson continued, "And Commander, if you're thinking about having these big fellows take any action, I've called for a full squad of my colleagues. They should be here momentarily."

"Commander," he said, not giving Richards any time to think. "In the short time I've had to talk with P-F-C Lance he has given me new insight into the attacks. Therefore, everything about his visit to this hospital is now Classified Top Secret. I want every copy of every report that even mentions him in my hands in ten minutes. No exceptions. Is that clear, Commander? I hope it is."

His voice dropped to a whisper. "You seem to delight in doing things that can effect the rest of a soldier or sailor's life. So Now Here This: If I do not get complete cooperation you will find out how difficult it is to expunge charges of hindering an investigation and giving aid to the enemy.

"Private Lance," he resumed in full voice, "grab your gear and head out to the jeep with Cpl. Wilson. Commander, I meant what I said about those papers in ten minutes." +++

Arriving back at the Quonset hut the changes there astonished him. An MP sat at a small table by the front door. Another walked a beat about the structure. As he climbed out of the jeep the seated MP rose, saluted and reported.

"Good afternoon, sir. We've locked the rear door from the inside. My partner and I supervised the deliveries from both Post Supply and the SeaBees. We're currently working off the standard secure area S.O.P. Please tell us anything else you need." Slightly bewildered, he thanked the man before entering. There he found a complete office had been delivered. Desks, chairs, typewriters, bulletin boards, a black board, and more. The SeaBees had been back, too. Electric lights had been strung. A field phone sat on a stand. They'd left three large tables covered with canvas stretched as tight as a Marine's bunk blanket. Behind a screen lay four bunks and a simple washing stand. And, amazingly, in a tiny alcove sat a small refrigerator just chugging away.

On top of the fridge lay a note. "Just let us know what else you need. Icebox is for chemical testing agents, fragile samples, and such. Please check to see if the test items have reached proper temperature." The note was signed "CPO R.F."

He turned to Wilson, "Corporal, you're responsible for some of this, aren't you?"

"Only the security, sir. I let the Sergeant-Of-The-Guard know you were setting up here. But Colonel Channing's an excellent organizer. And you impressed Chief Roland and his SeaBees by being so hands-on and ready to listen."

"A Chief is always a good man to impress. Glad I did. Now let's see about these test items." He opened the refrigerator. "Holy crow!"

He pulled out three cold bottles of Coke. "Anybody got a church key?"

At that instant loud speakers in all directions blared "INCOMING!"

All three hugged the floor until the all clear sounded. He sprang to his feet to put two of the bottles back. "Here, Lance, drink up. You're our Charge- Of-Quarters for the moment. Monitor the phones. Take in any deliveries or messages. We'll talk more when I'm back. Wilson, let's go find the new impacts." +++

"Well, sir, I knew I was a dead man," began Lance as the edge of the sun reached the Pacific Ocean. "I spend a lot of time manning the twin fifty caliber guns. Some folks claim they never saw anybody aim and fire the things faster than me. And I pretty much hit what I aim at. So there I am in a steel pot and undershirt watching the skies. Figured there wouldn't be an attack that day. Was well over half an hour later than those things usually hit. Then I heard the speakers give the alarm. An' I see stuff flying from over in the Quonset huts. Then, right along the same line, I see this black dot coming fast and high. I try to line the twin-50 up but it looks like it'll pass right over me. Hell, I thought maybe it'd go clear to the ocean.

"Exactly the time I decided that, the thing changed course. Not the compass heading, mind you. But like it took a dive down. I just stood there 'cause it looked like the blamed thing was headed straight for me. Would've hit just below my ribs. But it didn't. The damn thing sort of swerved left as it came down. Not much, but just enough. Hit the sleeve of my undershirt. Let me pull up this bandage, sir. You can still see where the weave of the cloth got pounded into my skin. Before Doc Rigid jumped in another of the Docs looked at the area with a big magnifier. Said it looked like the hair in that area'd been burned off right down to the skin. And that God's Own Truth, sir. I hope you believe me, sir."

"I do believe you, Lance," he replied. "The one of those things I got a look at was from the side. I saw it take that dive you mentioned.."

He turned to where Cpl. Wilson listened eagerly. "Sorry to say, sport, but I've got to ask you to take a walk. Got to ask a couple of questions that you're not cleared to hear."

"I'm sorry, too, sir," grinned Wilson as he headed out the door. "This is really getting interesting."

With the door closed he continued, "Now, Lance, this part will not be written down or otherwise recorded. I want you to tell me what you felt when that ball of rock whizzed past you. By that I do not mean your emotions. I know you were scared. Anybody would have been. But did you feel any physical sensations? Anything at all?" "Yes, sir, I did. Been thinking about it. A lot. There was this weird feeling. Lasted a second or two. You swim, sir? Good. With the water chest high have you ever jumped into a summersault? When I do it, as I turn over, but before I start to sink, my whole insides feel like they're floating. I almost feel giddy. Well, sir, that's about how I felt when that thing went by. Lasted I guess about two seconds. 'Corse by then the thing buried itself in the ground behind me. Sand and rock chips cut my back up a bit, but I didn't notice 'till that feeling wore off. Then, whoa! Does that help?"

"Lance, that was exactly what I needed to know. You and Wilson are off duty until Taps. I'm going to put on my Patent Pending Mad Scientist hat and see if I can sort this out." +++

"General, I'm betting the enemy weapon is powered by the sun," he said pointing to the blackboard. "Thanks to PFC Lance's input I compared your weather forecasters' records, and the flight-line logs, with the times of the attacks. The more clouds mentioned in the reports the later in the day the attack comes."

"By the sun?" replied the General. "How is that possible?"

"Over sixty years ago Adams and Day discovered that certain materials make electricity when exposed to light. Dr. Einstein published research on the subject the same year as his Theory of Relativity got all the press. Apparently the Japanese have advanced in this field. They can only fire once per day. And they seem to only have the one unit available. And, judging by the tool marks on the one 'cannonball' recovered intact from the mud at the bottom of that pond, they're hand making their projectiles.

"Now look over here, sir. On this chart, in blue, are the impacts and trace- backs posted by your people. They used the angle of impact to get those trace-backs. And that seemed to be valid. That is, until I talked to PFC Lance. Then I went and measured the data from the impact he witnessed. That was corroborated by the hole in the tin roof and the smashed saw at the SeaBees' work area. These stone projectiles, at the very end, hook to the left of their original line of flight.

"With this change to the plotted data, and I admit it's a rough estimate, the locus of probable targets changes. The enemy seems to be trying to get the range for the deep water docks and the area occupied by the 509th Composite Group."

The General blanched. "Holy crow!" he exclaimed. Then his voice fell to a whisper, "Even I don't know what those people are up to. But they've got an Admiral and Brigadier Farrell along as observers. And Tommy Farrell, my own class mate, won't even come close to talking shop with me. Plus they're expecting a shipment by sea in the next few days. I'd better talk to Farrell."

"One more thing, General. If this enemy weapon is sun powered, they've got some sort of power storage system. Firing with one day's charge won't clear the hills on this side of the 509th's HQ or reach the docks. But, if I were operating that gizmo I'd have seen what a two day charge would do. My guess is that two full days' worth sends those stones clear to the opposite shoreline. And then some. I'll also bet they’re hording a few explosive rounds. When they get the target they want, the attack will come some time around mid-morning. And all hell will be out for lunch." +++

The Grumman TBF Avenger seemed sluggish compared to the P-38 Lightning or the P-51 Mustangs he usually flew. This heap practically lumbered. Top speed seemed to be around three hundred miles per hour. But the beast had more ceiling than he'd ever need on this mission and more than enough flying time. There had been no attacks for three days. And the USS Indianapolis was preparing to unload its highly secret cargo.

From the radioman's seat in the Avenger, PFC Lance asked, "I'm still not quite sure what I'm supposed to look for, sir."

"Neither am I," he replied. "It's like they say about good art. You know it when you see it. You told me you've spent a lot of time watching the ocean from transport ships. Put that knowledge to work. Look for something that doesn't belong. Or's in the wrong place. Plus, you've probably had the best look at this than anybody on the Allied side of the war. I'm going to head in the most likely direction. You keep looking. Near and far.

"The General's got an umbrella in the air around the docks And everything with sonar gear's pinging that area to beat the band. Divers checked the whole pier system for hidden explosives. We're looking for the wild card in the deck.

"Besides," he continued. "That wild card's got to be something big. Spread out. Several acres, at least."

"How do you figure that, sir.?"

"I know how much heat energy the sun leaves on a square yard of ground. Under ideal conditions, mind you. And, if you convert that energy into steam, how much current can be produced. I also calculated how much energy those stones landed with. Give or take. Divide that by the current produced by a yard of sun. That's a bunch of square yards, even under perfect conditions. And these conditions can't be near perfect. So the size goes up even more. You can't hide anything near that big on the island itself. So we're looking in the sea." +++

About a half hour later Lance called out, "Sir, something seems, I don't know, funny. To the right. Two o'clock by just this side of the horizon. The sea looks a bit lighter than anywhere else in view. Like the water's shallower. But these charts don't indicate anything like that."

"We'll get a closer look. I sure don't see anything else that's odd."

Five minutes later he lowered the binoculars from his eyes. "Kind of looks like an unmarked shallow area with reefs. There's a bunch of pelicans standing, instead of floating. I'll swing over the area."

A moment later he continued, "Can't see anything suspicious, but... Mother of Seabiscuit!! Where'd that downdraft come from?" He fought to steady the Avenger when Lance spoke up.

"Come around again, sir. I saw something. Almost transparent."

"Coming around. Describe it."

"Not really sure, sir. A long cylinder. Well... More like a huge soda straw coming out of the ocean at a thirty or forty degree angle. That is, if I really saw it. Sort of like the ghosts in the movie Topper. Could see right through 'em when they weren't solid. Almost faded away. Look! There it is! I see it better 'cause we're lower. You see it, sir?"

"I sure as blazes see something, Lance. Lower the landing hook. We'll bounce it off that whatever-it-is. See if there's anything solid."

"Tail-hook down," replied Lance. "Hope this works..."

"You and me both, pal. If the sun were any higher we'd never have seen it. Closing in Just a little lower. Steady... Steady..."

Less than two seconds later the two felt the tail-hook rebound. A fraction of a split-second after that something kicked the whole tail of the Avenger like a football punter.

The tail of the plane rose so fast that the ship began an uncontrolled rotation around it's own center of gravity. The sky and ocean changed places. Instinct caused him to initially move the flaps in the wrong direction. Then he slammed them the other way. Now the Avenger hurtled into the inverted half of an inside loop. The ocean rushed up to greet them. He pulled the loop even tighter as yet another downdraft battered the ship. The bottom of the tail assembly did not skip across the crests of the waves. Not quite.

Now he clawed for altitude as the ship bucked like some broncos he remembered. The tail controls felt different and sluggish. "Lance," he yelled, "get a look at the tail!"

"Holy Moses!" came the reply. "Something punched a hole the size of my fist straight through the right hand surface."

"Roger! Let me get a quick feel for the ship, then we'll do some damage." As he pulled back and to the right with the stick he continued, "Air! They're firing with just air. At five or six times the speed of sound. We breached the containment for a fraction of a second and it punched the hell out of us. And those flaming pelicans aren't birds. They're the blasted air intakes. Now, find me a target."

"Can't see the soda straw from this angle. But... Blazes! They're firing, sir. Saw something solid zip by. Ten o'clock by eight o’clock low. A bit to the left of that circle of pelicans. Looks like a hole in the water itself."

"I see it! Arm the master bomb release. We're going to put all our eggs into that watery basket." Lance glanced at the bombardier’s card they'd given him. He unlocked the lever that dumped all the ordinance at once. The device was not intended for combat, but for emergency landings. Then he felt the Avenger dive. Like a falling rock. As he brought the lever to the ready position he said a prayer that the Major knew what he was doing.

At that same instant the Major sent the exact same message aloft.

"Stand by. When I pull out wait for my call to dump the load. Pulling out in- five, four, three, two, one..."

Lance held on as somebody seemed to land on his chest. The Avenger fought its way to level flight. About a single second later he heard, "Now! Now!! NOW!"

Lance threw everything he had against the lever. He felt the ship spring up as the bomb load fell away. He pulled himself up to the canopy to look back at the target. Then a water plume arose like that of a depth charge.

Lance drew in his breath for a yell of triumph. Then stared openmouthed as millions of tiny sparks seemed to tear across the water in all directions. Now bubbles, as far as the eye could see turned the ocean's surface to billowing foam. Then flames rocketed into the sky!

Towering torches sprang up. First in a score of places. Next, hundreds of fiery pillars erupted. Then the whole ocean burned like the deepest cauldron in Hades itself.

He rode the bucking updrafts as best he could. The Avenger slammed this way and that. In seconds the air grew almost too hot to breathe. He moved the throttle to wide open. Then a ball of flame and who-knows-what ascended directly in front of him.

"Hold your breath!" he yelled.

Flame washed against the canopy. The engine's air scoops drew in some of the mixture. The Avenger surged ahead like like some insane super- charger kicking in. He felt pain in his wrists as the exposed skin reddened. Then the ship careened above the flames. She slowed back to normal acceleration. He began to feel wisps of cooler air enter the cabin.

"Lance, you still with me?"

"Still here, sir. But that was worse'n an Indian sweat-lodge."

"I agree," he laughed. "But I'm not going to tell old Mephito, the Comanche shaman that. Wow, what a ride.

"We're heading back. Don't think we can top that fireworks display. And I'm not about to try." +++

"Near as I can tell, General, the explosion breached whatever-the-heck they used to store the electrical energy. And, as electricity tends to, it took the line of least resistance to escape. Which was back to the collection device. The small amount of current going in got pushed back down those filaments like a rocket. That basically vaporized the collector sheets in the sea. Shame that. I doubt we'll figure out how the system worked. Much less the exact materials used. Maybe the collector also acted as a catalyst. I don't know.

"But all that juice spent its energy breaking down the water molecules into oxygen and hydrogen atoms. Then some random spark started a near explosive fire while the out-flowing current kept making more hydrogen to burn. Plus all the impurities of the seawater got involved. Sodium ions, and lots of others would be reactive in that hellish oxygen rich environment. Anything even remotely flammable joined the fun. PFC Lance managed to get some excellent photographs of the conflagration while I was fighting for control of the Avenger. Shame they'll be classified until only The Lord knows when."

"But now we can get on with our mission of helping close out the Pacific Theater," replied the General. "No rest for the weary, however. Or the partially toasted. I have new instructions for you. Your gear is already stowed on a PBY down at the docks. Take off will be in an hour. You've just got time to shower and get some chow."

"Not surprising, sir," he said. "But my guess is that the war is going to end sooner than expected. And thank you for all the cooperation from you and your people. It really helped."

"Our pleasure, Major Cody."

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