Prologue The sun was white as it broke the horizon; the air was heavy with the aroma of grass and freshly turned soil. Klaus Branden stepped from his one-room sod house, placed his work boots on the bench by the door, and fastened the right strap of his overalls. It was going to be hot and he wanted to get as much sod broken as possible before noon. His single mule would need at least three hours rest if he wanted to get a second acre plowed in the afternoon. He had broken two acres the day before and at least two the day before that. There was plenty of moisture in the soil and he figured that if he could maintain his pace he’d have twenty acres ready for planting by the end of the week. Twenty acres of red cane should see his stock through the winter. With his forty acres of wheat doing good and the broom corn coming on strong, it promised to be a good year. Benjamin, his blond son of nine, came to the door, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and yawned. "The coffee’s boiling on the stove. If you’ll dish us up a bowl of mush, I’ll join you for breakfast after I’ve fed the mule," Klaus said as he laced his right boot and started on the second. "What?" the boy asked. Klaus smiled. "Wake up, boy, and listen. I’m going to feed the stock and then we’ll have some breakfast." "You want mush?" Klaus nodded. "Yes, that will be fine." As Benjamin stepped back into the soddy, Klaus allowed his eyes to drift to the simple graves beyond the corral. The doctor had told her that there could be no more children but she insisted that they try. Now, she was gone and his son had no mother. He thought of the letter on the table in the kitchen. Mr. Branden, I have decided to accept your proposal. I will be arriving on the train on May 22nd. You will know me by the dress I will be wearing. It is blue with small yellow diamonds with a matching bonnet. I look forward to meeting you and to our lives together. I will be a good wife to you and mother to Benjamin. Thank you for this. With sincerest regards, Caron. "The 22nd is only twelve days away," Klaus said to himself. "I’ve got to get this crop in and get this house in order." He didn’t want her to think that he wasn’t clean or a lay-about. He wanted the place to look prosperous so she wouldn’t be discouraged. He knew she was taking a gamble and this wasn’t the kind of country to attract a woman. It was six miles to the nearest neighbor and twelve to the nearest tree. But the land was rich and he was a good farmer. With a little luck and a good wife he’d be a prosperous man in a few short years. He wondered what she looked like. He hoped she wasn’t some skin and bones old maid. He told her he wanted a solid woman in his letter and she had assured him that she was. A slight breeze arose and the new windmill fan made a turn. The plunger rose and a ration of water spilled from the pipe into the stock tank. Klaus watched it with smiled. With a steady supply of water for his house and stock, land that hadn’t been worth settling was now offering the hope of a working farm of his own. After years of sacrifice and hard work for the railroad he could finally have a place of his own. He could own something and be somebody. His son could be a man of property and his family could be proud of what he had accomplished. His wedding present to her would be a photograph of their farm, with him and her, and Benjamin. She could send it back east to show what he would provide for her. She would be proud that she had agreed to be his wife and she could show her family what a fine place and handsome stepson she had. He would have a wife to help out and grow strong with. He smiled and nodded. It was a good plan. He started for the corral but stopped when he saw four horsemen approaching from the north. "Benjamin," he shouted. "Bring my rifle and my loads." The boy ran from the house carrying the single shot Stevens and a handful of cartridges. "I think you better wait in the house," he said as he put the cartridges in his pocket and placed a round in the chamber. "I’ve expected this man and there may be some trouble. He won’t like my answer." Benjamin looked at the riders before nervously running to the house. He pulled the curtain back on the single window so he could watch. Klaus smirked as Hollingsworth and his men rode their horses across his wheat field without any effort to go around. He leaned his rifle against the corral fence and sat on the edge of the stock tank. He decided that a gun in his hands might cause trouble. He’d go for it if he needed to. Otherwise he’d keep cool and talk sensibly. The big paint stallion pranced nervously as Hollingsworth drew up the reins and allowed his hat to fall against his back, held fast by the hat string at his neck. His long white hair danced at the gentle breeze in his face. His riders spread out in a semicircle on either side and held their mounts fast. "You’re early this morning, Mr. Hollingsworth," Klaus said. "Gonna be a scorcher. Wanted to see you early." "You’re welcome to water your horses." "Obliged. I see you finished your mill. Look’s like a real fine job." Klaus looked over his shoulder toward the top of the mill. "Me and the boy built it. It works fine." "Looks like it. You give any thought to my offer?" "Yes, sir, I did. I’m going to have to pass." Hollingsworth was silent for several moments. "I guess with the mill finished I could up my offer by say, twenty dollars," he said quietly. "It isn’t the money. Everything I got is wrapped up in this place. I’ve got family buried here. It’s my home." "Plenty of room for more graves," Scar Hammel, a rider with a long raking mark across his eye and cheek said roughly. Klaus stood and made a step toward his rifle. "What’s that supposed to mean?" Hollingsworth urged his stallion forward a step. "Don’t mean nothing. Scar knows what a risk you’re running out here. This ain’t farm country and he knows it even if you don’t. I’m offering you enough to move back east and start afresh." Klaus leaned against the stallion and stepped by. "I’m just not interested. I don’t want to start fresh. Your money isn’t enough to buy this much land back there." "My offer’s fair." "Yes, sir, it is… for the land. But you want to buy my dreams and I won’t sell." Bennett and Orange closed their horses between Klaus and the corral fence, blocking him from the Stevens. "Mr. Hollingsworth, I don’t want no trouble. What you want this place for? You’re running cattle all over this country. What you need this place for?" "Because its mine by rights. I’ve seen this happen before, first one, then another and another. You plow up the land, ruin the grass, then a bad year comes along and you starve out. When you leave all that’s left is Russian thistles and rattlers." Klaus shook with anger and fright. "So what are you going to do? Beat it out of me." Hollingsworth smiled cruelly. "Beating a dunkard kraut like you won’t do me anymore good than trying to reason with you. You’ve got a choice. Leave it or be buried in it. I’m through talking." "Don’t you threaten me, by God! I’ll have the law on you." Orange rammed his horse forward knocking Klaus backwards into the stock tank. The riders laughed as the farmer struggled to get his footing. Klaus rose from the water, angry. "Gott damnit! This ain’t right!" Hollingsworth drew a nickel Colt Peacemaker from his right holster and sent a bullet into Klaus’ forehead. As his body fell back and floated across the tank, black blood spread across the water. "Don’t talk to me about right. What the hell you know about right you damn, dumb German piece of trash? What the hell do you know about what it takes to live out here? Damn you to hell!" His eyes flashed as he stared at the body as though it was still alive. Hollingworth’s riders waited quietly for him to compose himself. Scar Hammel finally spoke. "What you want done with the place?" Hollingsworth did not take his gaze from the body. "Burn it. Burn it to the ground. Throw the kraut in the house before you set it" "What about the kid? He’s hiding in the house." "If you’re squeamish, shoot him first then burn the place." Hammel spurred his horse toward the soddy, drew his Colt, dismounted and kicked open the door. Moments later a shot echoed from the interior. Hollingsworth blinked at the gun’s report and seemed to awaken from his trance. "Burn it all, boys. All except the mill, the corral and the tank. We could use them." "Look at this letter," Scar said as he walked from the soddy. "It says here that the kraut had himself a woman coming." "Maybe we could console her," Joe Orange said. "What’s she look like?" "Don’t say. She writes with a fine hand." "Shit, Hammel! I ain’t interested in her handwriting skills," Orange joked. All but Hollingsworth laughed. Flames rose from the interior of the soddy. Bennett and Orange carried Branden’s body through the door and threw the small bench into the fire. "Leave the stock in the corral so’s it looks like an accident," Hammel ordered. The riders mounted their horses and gathered around Hollingsworth as silently watched the soddy being consumed by the flames. "A woman with writing skills can be quite an asset," Hollingsworth said quietly, staring into the fire. "Don’t seem funny to me." They waited quietly. None of them laughed. CHAPTER I The dim light of a table lamp cast long flickering shadows across the room. A quilt of yellow, white, and orange squares reflected the lamplight and almost hid the woman. Other than the slow ticking of a mantle clock on a far wall, the only other sound was her rhythmic, labored breaths. From the far edge of the bed Collier adjusted the covering. He sat in a small high-backed rocker situated next to her. A knock at the bedroom door produced a soft reply. Slowly the door opened and another circle of luminescence pushed back the darkness as a young woman carried an oil lamp before her. She stood back as if fearful of intrusion upon either of them. "How's it going, Dad?" Katherine spoke with a low, strong voice. Collier leaned back in the rocking chair and allowed his eyes to wonder about the room. The small rocker was ill suited to his long angular frame. His white hair and short beard were freshly barbered and he wore a crisp white shirt and dark dress pants. "Has the minister arrived yet?" His voice was deep, his words were slow and determined. "No. But we expect him at any time." He adjusted the coverlet about her shoulders and gazed into her face. "She won't last the night. That minister is important to her. If he isn't here soon, I think we should send Lawrence for him." "I'll get him on the road. Is there anything else that I can do? Would you like me to sit with Mom for a while so you can get some rest?" "No. She waited for me all these years. I can surely wait a few more hours for her." "Then I'll get Lawrence on the road. If you need anything, let me know." "I'll be fine. Thank you, honey, but I want that damned minister. You'd think he could be here for the woman who built that church for him. After all the years of giving for it, I'd think she could expect a little of that comfort returned to her, now." The young woman turned for the door. "I'll send Lawrence, immediately." The door closed behind her. Her scurrying footsteps could be heard down the hall. Collier sat silently for several minutes before he reached under the coverlet and held her hand in his left while gently stroking it with his right. "He should be here soon. Hold on. Just a little while longer." Lane Collier shook his head as he thought of how she had aged ten years in the last two. A cancer had transformed a woman of strength and beauty into the emaciated frame struggling for a last few moments of life. As Collier stroked her forehead he had difficulty accepting the fact that this was the woman he had loved for almost thirty years. It had not crossed his mind until recently that he would outlive her. He was the one who had taken all of the risks. He was the one who had ventured, more than once, into situations that had spelled disaster for so many others. She had always remained safely behind on the farm, raising the blooded shorthorn cattle, the thoroughbred racers and the Belgians. He had provided much of the money for her early investments from his schemes and adventures on the Plains of the West but it had been her guiding influence that had turned the quick riches into the lasting wealth of land and property. He had been satisfied to help her build her dream. It had been easy for him to go off on one adventure after another while she remained behind to do the real work. He felt guilty that he would reap the rewards of all those years of sacrifice and toil she had stoically provided. He had not been there when the original house burned. When young Stephen died from typhoid, he was chasing bandits for others who could have done it themselves if they had possessed the courage. She turned the Missouri hill community into a center of cattle breeding and agriculture. She had built the one-room church into a great stone center of religion and public assistance. It had been through her guidance that a small public college was now growing with each passing year. Men had called him benefactor and hero of the western frontier but most of his accomplishments of worth had been the direct result of her gentle prodding support. He had provided some of the material but she was the glue that held it all together. He spoke softly as he held her hand. "Dancer's colt was born this evening. He's a fine dark bay. Four black feet and the fetlocks look solid. I know you were concerned about that weakness but this colt seems to have none of it. He doesn't have a speck of white on him. You should have seen that grandson of yours when the colt started coming. Twelve years old and he handled that birthing as well as any hand I've seen. He's a real horseman, Nell. It won't be long and he'll be telling Lawrence and me how to run this place. There's a lot of you in that boy. You can see the line, him, then Lawrence, then you. It's just as plain as day." Her struggling seemed less intense so he continued. "I received a letter from Annie, today. Seems there's some sort of trouble going on out there. She asked if I could come as she's worried about Anson. Of course she doesn't realize the situation here. I guess I just didn't realize it would come to this point so quickly. I guess we should have said more when I wrote her about your illness. You said not to make a fuss. They had all they could handle with that ranch but I should have said more. It's going to be a shock for all of them." Collier examined her carefully. She was calm. She wasn't fighting for breath as before. He was sure his conversation was making it easier. "I guess there's going to be a big dedication for that new church tomorrow. You can see the steeple from the west pasture. What with all the dignitaries and such coming in, I guess that preacher you think is so grand must have been held up. Still, I'd think he'd be here. After all, you were the one who provided most of the money for that little project. Money, hell, there wouldn't be no church if it wasn't for you." He looked at her for a response. After a moment he smiled and nodded. "I know, I know. I need to mellow out. I need to cut people more slack. It's just that I'd think he could be here. Well, anyway, Lawrence is going after him. It's only a four-mile ride. It shouldn't take long." Her breathing became shallow. Collier grasped her hand more tightly. "Hold on. I know it won't be long." He could feel her slipping away. "Don't go yet. I know he'll be here. I always loved you. You always meant so much. I know I wasn't here enough. I just wasn't cut out for this farming. There was so much going on. I told myself I was doing it for the money but we had enough. It wasn't you. It was the West. I just had to be out there. I cheated us, didn't I? Now it's too late. I told myself we would have plenty of time. He felt a slight pressure on his hand as she tightened her grip. She took a breath, a deep and final drink of life. There was a quiet sigh of resignation as she released herself. Her hand went limp. Collier brought her hand to his face. He struggled to keep himself from weeping. His eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Nell. It will be a worse world without you." He placed his head upon her bosom and wept softly in the glowing circle of lamplight. The ceremony had ended. The final ritual between them was at hand. Again, there came a soft knocking at the bedroom door and the gentle voice of Katherine. "Dad, the minister has arrived. He said he hurried but he was held up with the planning for the ceremony tomorrow. What do you want?" "You tell that damned preacher!" He stopped, smiled and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Tell the preacher to come on in, Katherine. Mom's ready for him now." Chapter II The large three story frame house was situated midway up the side of a gentle slope overlooking elaborate barns and corrals scattered through the small valley. The Victorian structure had a comfortable verandah making a long angular sweep along the south and east ends. Four stone posts stood like sentinels before the structure. Large iron rings were embedded in each post for securing the teams and riding horses of visitors. A hundred yards below the house was the great barn. The walls and foundation of stone were crowned with an imposing gable roof, trimmed in a recent coat of red paint. Dwarfing even the mansion on the hill, the barn acted as the central base of operations for a network of surrounding outbuildings and lesser barns. Above the double doorway was an inscription painted on the second story hay mall door, "Collier Farms". Somewhat hidden from the morning sun in the shadow of the great gable structure five horses were tied to the whitewashed wooden fence running to the southwest of the front corner. Four of the horses were almost perfectly matched mares of black with only a powder of white present on their backs. Each head appeared as if it had been formed by a sculptor's mallet and chisel with well-formed, deep set black eyes, flaring nostrils and imposing necks. There was sign of American saddler and thoroughbred blood running in the animals' veins, but to any horseman it would have been obvious at first examination that their blood was of the same purposeful descent. The beasts were meant to match and as a match were they intended to function. The fifth horse was a large buckskin gelding of sixteen hands. He countered the black mares in contour but not in excellence. Where they were long and sleek, showing speed and grace, he was solid and sure for strength and dependability. Although young, his quiet disposition exhibited an intelligence of a well-bred and well-trained animal. An expensive Heiser high-candled Rocky Mountain roper with solid brass horn and matching saddle bags rested on the gelding's back. The working saddle, without ornamentation or tooling, was of the finest construction. The saddle held a fine leather scabbard containing a superb Remington rolling block rifle. The massive buffalo rifle was of little use in the quiet civilization of the Missouri hills and seemed out of place. Lane Collier adjusted the saddle and rigging. His leather town coat and matching vest were of the finest material and construction but not ostentatious. A crisp white shirt and light brown tie finished the image of a man of dress and sophistication. His chaps were well-worn and possessed the marks of a thousand skirmishes with cattle and wire, brush and thicket. They were a contrast to the coat and vest in age but not in construction. The same could be said of his boots and simple spurs. His low crowned and broad brimmed hat was of the Plains tradition to resist the wind and elements. Collier was not a man of the farm, barn, or rolling peaceful hills. He was a man of the wind, the sun and the elements; a horseman who dwelt beyond this realm and yet held allegiance in a fashion to this rolling collection of barns, corrals and fine mansion on a hill. Beneath his coat, holstered on his left in a butt forward fashion was the nickel-plated, black handle grip of a Merwin & Hulbert revolver. The revolver was not of the size and proportion Collier preferred but it was small and made little show. Many were uncomfortable with a man who felt it necessary to wear a hand gun, but long years of habit had conditioned Collier to the feeling that a man unarmed was a man undressed. He did not wear a revolver to prove a point. The weapon was present in case he had to make one. A subtle difference, but to a man who had felt it necessary so many times to defend himself or force his will upon others, a perfectly logical one. "Are you about ready?" Lawrence, Collier’s only surviving son approached. He was a tall man resembling his mother but not as tall as Collier, and there was the sharp, dark eyed appearance that Collier had grown to love in his wife. Beside Lawrence, in a simple gingham dress, was Katherine. She had a grace and presence that made her attractive in spite of her irregular features. Collier respected her for her innate good intelligence and loved her for the tall grandson of twelve years swiftly growing to manhood and future control of the family fortune. "Just about. I need to fill my canteen and I'll be on my way," Collier said as he patted his buckskin on the rump and stepped out to part farewell to the couple. Katherine grimaced and placed her hands rigidly on her hips. "Dad! Do you really need that thing? It's 1894!" Collier looked down at the butt of the revolver peeking from beneath his jacket. "Old dogs run old trails, Katherine. It may be 1894 here on the farm but I've often found there is little meaning to such things on the trail." Lawrence smiled and put his arm around her waist. "I notice those old Colt revolvers have mysteriously disappeared from the den, and isn't that your old buffalo rifle stuffed in that scabbard?" Katherine shook her head. "What would you want with those old pistols? For heaven's sake, Dad, they're antiques." Collier smiled and turned back to his saddle bags. "Missy, those old antiques served me and McKnight well enough when we was buffler huntin' on the Llano and were more than handy in the Nations against the Madlock gang. I guess they'll serve this old antique just fine now." She smiled and placed her arm around his shoulder. "It's just that I love this old "antique" almost as much as I love my husband, and I guess I'm a little scared to have him gallivanting off looking like he's going out to fight Indians and chase buffalo." "How do you know that after I take care of this business at Scott City, I don't intend to do just that?" "Dad, you can't be serious! You're needed right here with us." Collier gathered up the reins of the buckskin and swung into the saddle. He motioned to Lawrence with an open hand. "Hand me the lead rope to them mares, will ya, Son?" Lawrence gathered the lead rope and turned the four black mares to face the direction of the buckskin and handed the rope to Collier. Collier gave the hemp three dallies around the brass saddle horn before tying a slip knot to secure the outfit. "I've signed over power of attorney for this place to you and Katherine, Son. The Scott City ranch, I'll give to Anson and Annie. There's more acres by quite a bit out there but the land isn't nearly as productive and they'll need them to survive. I still figure you're getting the better end of the deal." Lawrence held up the front black mare and looked up at his father. "That'll be fine. I just didn't expect you to make this kind of decision without consulting us concerning your plans," he said. "I never have consulted anything with anyone in my life except your mother, and she knows my intention. I'll expect you to send those two some of those shorthorn bulls when they get ready for them. They should be entitled to some of that blood to upgrade their herd when it's time." "You can depend on that, Dad. He'll get as many as is necessary." "I know that, Son." Collier looked around. "I suppose that grandson of mine is off trying to break his neck on some green broke sack of dynamite." "I'm sure he'll find you before you get too far," Lawrence answered. Collier started off the mares and his buckskin with an easy pull. "I'll expect to see Dancer's colt running in Sedalia in two years, Katherine. I believe that horse could prove to be the fastest in the Ozarks." Katherine wiped her eye with the edge of her apron. "I'll expect you to be there." "It's a date. You know, my son would be hard pressed to do better than you, even if you are a nag." "A nag! Listen to you! You'd think you'd been abused or something instead of spoiled rotten like you've been." "Don't sell the land, don't borrow money, and plant your corn early," Collier said as he passed the house working his way up the lane. Lawrence smiled. He couldn't remember how many times he had heard his mother make the same statement. "I'll try to remember that," he answered. Collier was beyond the house and turning up the hill toward the front gate. "I know you will, Son. You might tell that nag of a wife you love her once in a while." Katherine came to the side of her husband. She placed her arm around him and laid her head on his shoulder. "He wasn't serious, was he?" she asked. "About what?" "About going off and not coming back." Lawrence sighed and gently squeezed her waist. "I think Dad will do whatever Dad wants to do. If I were you I'd look for him in Sedalia in about two years." "Surely he knows he's welcome here and that we love him." "The only thing that held him here was Mom. I sometimes think she was the only thing in his life that was ever able to hold him in one place." Collier worked his way up the narrow road to St. Joseph and the train that would take him and his horses to Scott City. He rode easily as the four mares became familiar with the lead rope. A running horse caused Collier to sit up in his saddle. David came behind him on a green broken roan gelding. He reined his mount next to his grandfather. "In a hurry?" Collier asked. He looked ahead. "Yep! Trying to catch my grandpa! Kinda fraid he'll get lost on this road." "Even if he did get lost, he'd want somebody who was at least potty-trained to help him out." "Beggars can't be choosers." Collier smiled. "When you get back to the house, look in the center drawer of my desk in the den. You'll find a brass key. The key works the third drawer down on the right side. In that drawer you'll find a new Colt's double action .44 revolver with the initials D. C. inlaid in the handle. Your mom will throw a fit so I wouldn't make a big point of flashing it around for a few years." "What for? Won't be any old gunfighters around to show me how to shoot it." "I know. Just be careful you don't blow your foot off or something." They rode on for a while without speaking. Finally, Collier turned in his saddle and looked at David. "Well?" David returned the look with youthful defiance. "Well?" Collier shook his head. "You expect to ride all the way to St. Joe?" The boy looked forward again as if talking to the wind. "There and back. It won't hurt. This horse needs a good neck put on him anyway." "You don't think your mom might not be concerned about where you're at come sundown?" "Nope." "Why not?" "Cause I told her I was going with you to St. Joe. I told her you said it would be all right and you'd buy my dinner and let me stay in the hotel with you tonight." "Oh? And what did she say?" "She said it sounded like a story to her." "What did you say?" "I said it was a story. But, it sounded like a pretty good one and she ought to buy it just this once." "And what did she say then?" There was a pause. "I'm here, ain't I?" Collier smiled and carefully eyed the youngster. "That ain't much of an answer." The boy was silent for a while longer. "Wasn't much of a question." Collier shook his head and smiled. They made their way on down the road toward St. Joseph. Nothing more was said concerning the matter. Chapter III There wasn't much to Scott City other than a simple main street running north and south from the railroad tracks and a few small houses strung on either side. The simple wooden frame buildings and lone bank were small and scattered on a vast open Kansas grassland that provided no landmark other than the town itself. There were few trees except for some saplings a few residents were trying to grow with the feeble hope that one day they would provide some type of protection from the sun and wind. The only feature that many from the East would find unusual was the presence of windmills near every building giving the small town the appearance of a village of pinwheels from a distance. Each tower was topped by a great spinning wheel that drove the plungers sucking precious water from deep within the earth. Water for his horses was Collier’s greatest concern as the animals were unloaded from the boxcar of the train. The mares and gelding had not been watered for two days. A windmill was in the yards and it was only a short time before the animals were satisfied. Collier turned his attention to something to eat. After saddling the buckskin, he led the procession of mares down the central street looking for a restaurant. In such a small town the eating establishment was not difficult to find. As was the fashion, the cafe was a simple frame building with a false front. But, as usual, the false front only caused the small structure to appear odd and poorly balanced. There was little of distinction to the business other the simple "cafe" painted in red with a white background on the front glass window. Since it was the middle of the afternoon, there were only a few horses tied in front of the building with one of the two hitch rails empty. Collier took possession of that rail as he secured the mares and gelding before entering. He entered through a single front door to a room that held a casual arrangement of six round tables with a serving bar and stools at the back next to the kitchen. A small older woman and a young blond were quietly sitting at the bar next to the cash register. The blond rose from her stool. "Will you be eating?" Collier made his way to a table near the wall. "If it's not too much trouble." The old woman mumbled to the blond. The blond went to Collier before speaking. "We've got some ham, beans with cornbread still warm if you're interested." Collier sat forward in his chair and slipped off his leather jacket. "Sounds good. Plenty of coffee." The waitress produced a crooked toothed smile and started for the bar. "I'll get you the coffee. It will be just a bit before the beans." As she spoke, the door to the cafe opened and an older man of small stature wearing a black apron, entered the cafe. His hands were blackened from work at the forge and his face streaked with soot and sweat. The fellow gave Collier a nod of recognition which was returned, then went immediately to the bar. Collier was served his coffee in a stoneware cup. As he sipped his coffee he noticed there was a narrow mirror running on the wall behind the bar. He caught the blacksmith several times eyeing him in the mirror. Sheriff John Bother and his deputy, Arlo John, entered the cafe and went to the bar for afternoon coffee. Bother was of average height but carried a hundred unnecessary pounds of table muscle around his middle. He dressed himself in a cheap dark business suit that barely matched the well-stained brown fedora on his head. A long barreled .45 Colt was suspended hopelessly high on his waist by a large gunbelt and holster that did more service holding up his pants than any gun use. Bother walked with that knock-kneed stride of someone who had been overweight all of his life. He shuffled to the bar as though it was a chore to lift his feet. Beside the portly sheriff walked his deputy, Arlo John. Arlo was a thin greasy-looking fellow with a shock of black hair hanging over his eyes giving him the appearance of a poor sheep dog. He had a beard stubble at least four days old and ambled along on boots so overridden that he was walking on the side of his boots rather than the heels. Arlo could have used the eighty pounds that had been cultivated by Bother. His grimy shirt collar was two sizes too large, his pants at least three inches too large at the waist and his hat, a quarter size too big around. His pants were also puckered and stuffed into the two-gun rig that he carried around his waist. Two cheap Owl revolvers hung in holsters that swung like pendulums as Arlo sauntered through the cafe. Collier noticed the pair when they entered and the stars on their chests. He smiled and shook his head. He had often seen lawmen like them in small towns before; sadly incompetent men barely able to perform the limited responsibilities of their poorly paying jobs. The trouble, as Collier saw it, was that the jobs needed to pay well and held by men of quality. Sheriff Bother walked to the stool next to Sand Lyman, the blacksmith, and hoisted himself, a piece at a time, onto the stool. Arlo went to the other side of Lyman and found his place. "You buying the coffee, today, Sand?" Bother asked casually. "I suppose I could flip you for it," Sand Lyman answered as he gazed into the mirror at the stranger. Bother noticed Lyman was occupied with the stranger. He looked into the mirror to catch a closer glimpse of Collier. "You don't seem to be with us, today." Lyman twisted his face as he contemplated the image of Collier. "I ought to know that feller. I'd swear I've seen him somewhere before." "Maybe he's some sort a hoss trader," Arlo John said between noisy slurps of his coffee. "Did ya see that there matched set a mares tied out there? I doubt if'n you'll ever see any better." "From his dress, I'd doubt he's wanted or anything. He just doesn't look the type," Bother said. "Naw, I don't think it's anything like that. There's just something about him. I really can't put my finger on it." The waitress gathered Collier's order and started toward his table. "Maybe I ought to hoorah him a little just to see what he's made of?" Arlo said. Arlo was interested in impressing the waitress with his interrogation of the stranger. Bother smiled, sipped his coffee, thought it over and nodded. "Sure, Arlo. Old Sand here has gotten my dander up about this fellow. Why don't ya check him out? If he gives ya any guff, put the rush on him." "Now wait a minute, fellows," Lyman said quietly. "I don't think that's a very good idea. He may be an older guy, but I don't know that you should mess with somebody you don't know anything about." "Pshaw!" Arlo said as he rose from the stool. "I don't see that old fart as much." He stood and gave an exaggerated adjustment on his well-worn two-gun rig. "I think I can handle this just dandy." Arlo started swaggering toward Collier's table. John Bother snickered like a naughty little kid. "Watch this, Sand. This ought to be good." The waitress served Collier the plate of ham and beans on a stoneware platter. The cornbread was on a separate plate. A serving of peas was also presented in a small bowl. "Can I get you anything else, sir?" she asked politely, obviously taken with Collier's good looks. Collier smiled and nodded. "I'd take another shot of that coffee." The waitress produced a coy smile. Her crooked teeth gave her mouth the appearance of a half-filled graveyard. "Yes, sir. Coming right up." As she hurried back to the coffee, Arlo John approached Collier's table, directly across from him, turned a chair around, back to the table, swung a leg over it like he was mounting a horse, and sat down facing Collier. Arlo tipped his hat back allowing even more of the black mop of hair to fall across his eyes, leaned forward on the back of his chair and smacked his lips. "Look at the ass on that woman. I sure would like to see more a that in the back room." Collier examined the moronic expression of the deputy. "Is there something I can do for you?" he asked. Arlo puffed up and rocked back in his chair to allow Collier a good look at his badge. "Well, you know out here the law needs to check things out. A feller like you, nobody knowing anything about him, needs to answer a few questions." Collier nodded and stirred his beans with his fork before answering. "Sure. I can understand that. What do you need to know?" Arlo saw the waitress returning with a pot of coffee. He smiled at Collier, reached across the small table and snatched a square of Collier's cornbread. As the waitress returned, Arlo examined the cornbread, looking first at Collier then at the waitress, very impressed with himself for making such a clever and bold move. The waitress threw Arlo a passing look of disgust. She filled Collier's coffee cup and asked if there would be anything else. "A small towel if you don't mind," Collier answered. The waitress was surprised by the request but she smiled and nodded. Arlo gave out a large hee-haw. "What? Old timer, ya need a bib?" Collier smiled coldly. "You had some questions?" Arlo took a bite of the cornbread then answered with a mouthful of partly chewed refuse. "Well, as I was a say'in, we lawmen need to check people out. Old farts like you might be wanted or something. A lawman never knows when a real dangerous criminal might be lurking about our town." Collier put down his fork. The sight of cornbread blowing across the table diminished his appetite. "Ask your questions," he said. Arlo could see Bother and Lyman watching him in the mirror. The waitress approached with the towel. Even the old cook came to the doorway to watch the deputy put on his stuff. "Well, now, careful there, old timer, you don't need to get that-a-way with me. We expect respect for the law here in Scott City." The waitress handed the towel to Collier. "Is this what you wanted, sir?" Collier nodded and smiled at the young woman. "Yes, that will do nicely, thank you." She smiled. Arlo didn’t like her manner. He searched the table for some other way to push the old man. Collier watched the deputy without a word. His expression was cold, his movements deliberate. Arlo reached over to Collier's place setting and took his spoon. He slid the small bowl of peas to his place and spooned a serving to his mouth. His eyes narrowed. "Peas ain't good for old geezers. Fouls up their innards. You best let me take care of them fer ya." Collier smiled and slowly pushed the plate of beans to the center of the table. "Well, hell, you've ate the cornbread, helped yourself to the peas. You might as well have it all." Arlo cut his eyes to the beans and leaned forward to take the plate. "Don't mind if'n I do." Collier's left hand flashed to Arlo's forehead taking hold of the shock of black hair and drove the deputy's face into the plate. The deputy's arms collapsed beneath him and his face slammed into the table. He recoiled away from the table. His face was a mass of open eyes, open mouth, beans and ham. He started for one of his revolvers. The revolver in Collier's right hand came immediately to Arlo's nose. The deputy went cross-eyed as he looked down the barrel. "Touch that gun and I'll scatter what few brains you have all over this café," Collier said coldly. Arlo said nothing as he concentrated on the nickel-plated revolver. He threw up his hands and shook his head. Collier rose from his chair and tossed Arlo the towel. "You owe me for a dinner." Arlo nodded, reached into his vest and placed a quarter on the table. "Gratuity for the lady," Collier said firmly without lowering the revolver. Arlo nodded, fished a nickel from his vest and placed it on the table. "I would think that as fine an ass as that would deserve more." Collier said. Arlo nodded, took all the change from his pocket and placed it on the table. "Take them junk pistols out and hand them to me butt first," Collier said. Arlo complied slowly and carefully. Collier took the pistols and turned to John Bother. The sheriff had turned completely around on his stool to face the action but did nothing else. "You want these weapons or do I toss them in the street?" Collier asked. The fat man shrugged. "It's your play." Collier picked up his jacket and Arlo's pistols leaving the cafe without a word. Everyone watched silently as he left the building, tossed the pistols into the water trough, mounted his buckskin and led the mares toward the north. Arlo walked toward the bar wiping beans from his face. John Bother stared at the floor and slowly shook his head. "Nice job, Arlo. Thoroughly professional interrogation." "What?" Arlo asked as he wiped his face. Sand Lyman smiled as he spoke. "I know who that guy is." Bother waited a few seconds for the answer. When there wasn't one, he spoke. "Well, don't keep us in suspense. Who the hell is he?" "I saw that feller gun down a gambler in Dodge City. Must a been over twenty years ago. John, that feller is Lane Collier." "Who's Lane Collier?" Arlo asked. John Bother lifted his bulk from the stool and started for the window to get another look at Collier before he left town. "Indian fighter, buffalo hunter, lawman, famous Missouri stockman. Word is it's his money that's backin' Anson Jones up on the Ladder." Arlo turned toward the counter and looked in the mirror. He didn't look at the waitress. "I could a took him if I hadn't been taken by surprise." Bother spun on his heels and bellowed, "Took you by surprise? Hell! He had you for breakfast!" Arlo meekly looked out of the corner of his eye at the waitress. She was standing with her back to him. Her chest was heaving as she tried to contain her laughter. Bother caught a last look at Collier and his horses as they slowly left town. He spoke quietly to himself. "And I'll bet that's where you're going right now, isn't it Mr. Collier? Going up to Ladder Creek to visit with Mr. Jones." He paused and thought of his options. "I guess, I best go pay a visit to Mr. Hollingsworth. This could change everything."