Bronson looked forward to a bath and meal at the Sand Draw Stage Station. After being in the mountains for four months panning for gold and only one trip out for supplies, he wanted more than a quick jump in a creek where the water was so cold it took his breath away. His strike had played out and he figured he had enough gold to help Ellie and Sam and still have enough to stake himself to a small ranch. Maybe he could find one by their place.

The time alone with only a mountain lion or elk or deer as company seemed to cleanse some of the anger from his soul. He was surprised he'd lived to be forty-one. He'd expected to been cut down by a bullet years ago. Times were looking up, he thought.

The route down the mountain followed a game trail. Huge limestone outcroppings formed a ridge along the entire south side of the Ferris. They looked like bottom teeth sticking up from the mountain, smooth and white, forming a canyon three miles long and too rugged for a horse to climb over. He had been high up a ravine behind the outcroppings, living in a small cabin he'd built after he found the first pan of dust. He felt weary from backbreaking work fourteen hours a day, digging the gravel and panning each shovel full of dirt, carefully picking out the small flakes caught in the rim of the pan. The only living thing he had talked to was his horse, and now he felt ready to socialize or at least talk with real people.

The sun was setting behind the Ferris with long fingers of crimson stretched across the sky leaving the clouds looking as if they had been soaked in blood. Shadows lengthened from the cliffs and forests trying to engulf him in darkness before he reached his destination. As Bronson rode up the dusty street to the general store, saloon and stage stop, he turned in his saddle, saw the color of the sunset, and wondered if it was an omen. A little too bloody. He tied the reins of the blue roan to the hitching post and went inside the building. One side housed the store with a ticket counter; and next to it, the eating tables. On the other side, long, planked boards made the bar top of the saloon.

"What'll you have?" asked the short stocky man stacking cans on some lower shelves. Glancing up he stopped what he was doing and with a look of surprise, said, "Bronson! I haven't seen you for a coon's age. How're you doing?" His long brown hair hung to his shoulders and a mustache drooped over his upper lip.

"Good, Russell. Better, now that I'm here. Give me a beer, and I could use a hot bath." Bronson leaned over the counter and shook Russell's outstretched hand. "You have your scales handy? I'm going need some supplies and cash, to trade for some gold dust," Bronson said.

"My scales are always handy. But first I'll get the water ready and we can take care of the gold after you eat." Russell walked through the bathhouse door and came back a few minutes later. "How about some food?" He went behind the bar of the saloon and drew a beer, handing it over to Bronson's outstretched hand.

"Yeah, a plate of whatever you have, and put my horse up with a bag of oats, will you?" Bronson took a long draw of his beer and sat down at a table, taking his hat off. He had a full head of hair turning gray, a thick neck, square jaw and piercing steel-gray eyes that made most people uncomfortable when he looked at them. His hands were rough and callused and he had a lean and muscular looking frame.

Russell went through a door to the back and a few minutes later Bronson saw him lead his horse toward the barn. He must have dozed off because he heard, rather than saw, the plate being set down in front of him. Filled with a large steak, boiled potatoes and gravy with two thick slices of bread sitting on top of the meat it was a worthy meal.

"I've been waiting for this for two months," Bronson said, staring at the food with pleasure. "My supplies been running low so I've mostly been eating venison and wild onions, with a biscuit every now and then." He picked up the knife and cut into the meat. A huge piece went into his mouth. He closed his eyes as he chewed. "This is good." After swallowing the meat, he lifted the glass of beer and drained it in one long pull.

"You must have had some good luck panning, huh?" Russell asked as he put another beer down in front of Bronson and sat down at the table. "You look different--content maybe."

"I'm getting that way. The panning wasn't bad. Maybe money makes a man content."

"What creek did you take it out of, if I can ask?"

"I don't mind telling since I got it all. Haggerty Creek. Up above the limestone cliffs." Bronson rolled his neck. "I don't think I've ever worked so hard in my life before but it's been worth it. There's enough dust here to help out Ellie and Sam with their ranch and keep me through the winter and then some," he said between bites. The bread soaked the gravy up and went into his mouth. "I must be tired, I usually don't talk this much about family, especially when I'm eating."

"Ahhh, that reminds me." Russell slapped himself on the forehead. "A letter come for you on the Rawlins stage about three weeks ago. I put it in the safe." He scurried over to the ticket counter and unlocked a small safe sitting on the floor. The stage stop manager pulled an envelope out and held it up like a prize. "Here it is," he said, bringing it over to the table. The writing on it was in a small, fine, script.

Bronson took a pair of reading glasses out of his shirt pocket. "Probably asking about helping them with the branding." He put the glasses on and opened the letter. A frown appeared on his face as he read.

John, we need your help. Someone is trying to force us off our ranch. We've been shot at several times and I fear we're facing more than we can handle. Please come.

Love, Ellie.

"Dammit!" He slammed a fist on the table. "You heard if anything is going on around Horse Creek?" he asked Russell.

"The stage driver said some cattle rustlers were hung the other day up north, but that's all. Need to hang more of them thieves, you ask me."

Bronson felt his blood turn cold and a small grip of fear took hold of his stomach. "You don't know the names of who was hung?" His eyes bored into Russell.

The stage stop keeper stood up and stepped back from the table. "No, no one told me. Didn't ask. Hey, you ain't mad at me, are ya?"

"No, not you, I'm worrying some." Bronson saw the sun had set and darkness was shadowing the buildings rapidly since it sat on the east end of the mountains.

"I need to sleep for a few hours. I'll take that bath first--you mind if I sleep in the barn?" Bronson asked. His weariness showed on his face.

"That'll be fine. You need anything else?" Russell walked to the shelves of dry goods past the sacks of flour stacked on the floor.

"Yeah, two boxes of .44s." The plate of food was only half eaten, his appetite gone. He finished the beer, stood up and took a small sack out of his pocket. "Weigh out what I owe you and give me cash for the rest." Bronson laid the pouch down on the countertop.

The shopkeeper reached under the counter and grabbed two boxes of cartridges. He set them by the scale and looked at Bronson with a puzzled expression. After the gold dust was poured into a scale tray and weighed, Russell took some money from his pocket and held them out to Bronson. "Why the cartridges? I ain't ever seen you carry a gun."

"Guess I'm gonna start." Bronson took the offered bills and stuck them in his pocket. He picked the two boxes of .44s up and walked toward the bathhouse door.