Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

The Hunt for El Lobo

Chapter 1: The Stranger

A horse neighing in the distance, the chink of spurs and a man’s calm hums.  A shadowy figure climbed down from a dark horse.  The man wore a thick frock coat with a dark hat on top.  His lean body and cat like eyes portrayed a man familiar to the face of death.  On his hip he wore a Colt Single Action engraved with a silver wolfs head in the grip. The figure then proceeded to grab behind his saddle and pulled out a large *1873 Winchester Rifle. The man began to meticulously load his rifle while humming an unknown tune.  All the while, in the distance a lone rider appeared riding at a measly canter, unknowingly riding into a killer’s mist.  After chambering his last round, the man then slowly proceeded to move into a prone position aiming his sights at the figure riding towards the canyon.  As the slow humming continued, the sound of the lever chambering the first bullet split the air. Then the humming stopped; only the slow howl of the wind was heard as the squinty eyes of the man focused on his target.  Then a sharp snap in the air was heard as the round delivered its report and the riding figure fell to the ground…

Where life had no values, death, sometimes, had its price.

That is why the bounty hunters appeared.

Year: 1873

Place: Lenoir City

Off the high plains of the distant west came a man, no ordinary man but a legendary bounty hunter. A thin man of about six foot one dressed in a simple black duster and hat, he carried an aura of confidence. Underneath the simple duster was a thick scar across the man’s neck. The man’s unkempt hair, squinty eyes, and thick stubble portrayed a hard cruel life.  The man’s name was well… he had no real name but everyone called him The Stranger.  No one knew much about the man except that he carried two death dealing *1851 Colt Navy Revolvers, one in a standard leather holster and the other weapon tucked into his belt. As the stranger slowly approached the small mining town of Lenoir, the stranger slowly cracked a devilish smile, as he knew the bounty laid waiting.

Once inside the town, the stranger made his way over to the local tavern slowly chewing on a wad of tobacco, while drawing the curious gazes of the local populace. Once at the tavern, he gracefully got off his pale roan, hitched it, and slowly walked up the steps. The tavern was a madhouse; literally, the place was full of rough, stinking, barbaric people. While an ear splitting piano played in the back ground, cattle ranchers from the north sat staring at prostitutes as they went by,  a local drunk lay in the back with a bottle in his hand, degenerate gamblers set at table cursing, smoking, and drinking. “Where are they” the stranger thought.

Glancing around the area, the stranger then approached the bartender. A squat man of about five foot three with thick rimmed glasses made the man an unusual sight in the area. The stranger then walked up and gruffly said, “Beer and a bottle”. The bartender then happily obliged and brought a frothy beer and a cold bottle to the man. “That will be ninety cents” said the Bartender. After paying the bartender he pulled out a large parchment object and spread it in front of the bartender.

Once fully spread the bartender gasped, printed on the front of the paper read “Wanted dead or alive for Bill “Red” Smith, Josh Parsons, and James Mortimer $2,000 Reward”. The bartender gulped silently, and then slowly nodded towards a group of three men sitting in a dark corner around 10 feet away. The stranger then tipped his hat as if saying thanks and slowly walked towards the group. “Who the hell is that “said Bill Smith casting his eyes at his two associates?  “I ain’t never seen him before “slurred the burly Josh Parsons. “Holy shit”, gulped James Mortimer” It’s…It’s… the stranger”. The three men quickly stood up, their chairs screeching on the wooden floor as they flew back. The tavern was deathly silent; all activity halted once everyone heard the famous bounty hunters name. The stranger walked forward around 5 feet away from the men and, spit tobacco juice at the floor and eerily questioned “What ya’ll boys getting all worked up for… huh”. Bill’s head was spinning” Here he was, the stranger, the man with no name, the death dealer” for the first, and last time in his short life, Bill would feel fear.  Bill slowly gulped and squeaked “Uhhh…” then he did what he only knew what to do in this situation.  He drew his weapon, but the stranger was faster. The stranger raised his weapon to eye level and aimed. Suddenly, as if in a slow motion movie three clicks were heard. One click for partial cock, two for half and three for full. And then a shot rang out in the tavern, Bill Smith clutched himself as a bullet was buried in the center of his chest, his body then hit the wooden floor with a thick thud. The slow red blood seeped out of his grossly contorted chest where the bullet had entered and exited. Once dealt with, the gun swiveled around and targeted Josh Parsons who had drawn his weapon but had pissed his pants and was weeping. Three clicks and once again a thunderous boom sounded and Josh crumpled to the floor, a bullet right between the eyes. 

The gun once again swiveled around but no deathly clicks were heard. James Mortimer had not drawn his weapon. The stranger hissed “Alive or dead your choice”. James ungracefully dropped his gun and raised his hands. The stranger raised a half hearted grin and gruffly said “Now that’s more like it boy”. He then proceeded to tie James hands behind his back and carted him towards his horse.

When the man returned the smell of death washed over him as he surveyed the carnage. The two bodies lay limp on the floor, blood seeping from the wounds, pieces of brain matter scattered across the back wall of the tavern coating a few unsuspecting people. The horrendous smell of urine, defecation, sweat and blood combined to give the air a heavy feel. The contorted faces of death played across the two criminals, as the stranger grabbed a leg of each and drug them out to his horse. Once on his overburdened horse, he thought “Just another day at the office”, as the horse slowly walked towards the sheriff’s office. After arriving there the stranger walked up spurs clinking off the wood, and brazenly knocked the door in with James in tow.

“Here’s your alive one”, the stranger roughly threw James to the floor,” I got two more on my horse out back”.  Once all the bodies were collected on the barren wood floor in the sheriff office, the sheriff then handed the stranger the two thousand dollars in reward money. The sheriff said “Two thousand dollars. It’s a lot of money; take me three years tuh earn it”. The stranger then retorted” Tell me, isn’t the sheriff ‘sposed to be brave, honorable, courageous, and above all honest?”The sheriff replied” Yeah, he is”. The stranger then snatched the star off the sheriff, tossed it in the dirt and airily said “I think you people need a new sheriff”. The spur clicking, tobacco spitting stranger slowly walked towards the local inn.

To be continued…

* The Colt Revolving  Belt Pistol of  Naval Caliber(i.e., .36 cal), later known as the Colt 1851 Navy or Navy Revolver, is a cap and ball revolver that was designed by Samuel Colt between 1847 and 1850. It remained in production until 1873, when revolvers using fixed metallic cartridges came into widespread use. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colt_1851_Navy_Revolver)

This weapon was thus converted from cap and ball to a regular fixed metallic cartridge thus standing out in the year 1873.  

*Winchester Rifle is usually used to refer to the lever-action rifles manufactured by the Winchester Repeating Arms Company, though the company has also manufactured many rifles of other action types. Winchester rifles were among the earliest repeating rifles: the Winchester repeater was incredibly popular and is colloquially known as “The Gun that Won the West” for its predominant role in the hands of Western settlers. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winchester_rifle)

Chapter 2: Monica

Year: 1873

Place: Ozark Mountains

And I looked and behold. A pale horse and his name that sat on him was death and hell followed with him.

A small simple trading post stood nestled in the Ozark Mountains. The refuge of the valley was a hotbed for criminal activity due to its remote location and lack of law enforcement officials. This time the stranger was not on a bounty mission but was drifting in search of employment, and decided to stop at the post to gather temporary provisions.  The stranger hitched his large pale roan, and stepped inside the dark cacophonous post.

The inside of the post was rather simple, a large wooden counter sat at the far right and large slabs of dried meat hung from the air. The stranger then glanced around the area, and as an observant hunter always does, he scanned for possible threats. “What you look ‘fer,” asked the owner behind the counter? “You got any jerky,” asked the Stranger in a thick drawl. “Right over thar,” said the man. The stranger walked over to the pointed out section but was interrupted by a loud thumping noise in the door adjacent to him. “Got some ruff fellers back there?” asked the stranger. “Reckin so, a man’s gotta make a livin”, the owner smiled as he gestured towards the grunts of satisfaction coming from the room.

“Where you from,” asked the owner? “I come from south of the (Mason-Dixon) line” he flatly replied as he sifted through the various dried bits of jerky. As the loud thumping continued a high pitched scream was heard through the small post. Immediately, the door burst open with the stranger standing guns drawn. What the stranger observed deeply unsettled him and sent him over the edge…

On the bed of straw at his feet was a large ogre looking man viciously raping an innocent woman, her face was full of bruises as she was bleeding profusely. Without any warning or hesitation the stranger placed a well struck boot on the face of the rapist. The rapist tumbled back on the floor holding his jaw which had most likely broken. “What the he…,” before he had finished the word stranger had placed three shots in the man with extreme prejudice. His muscles were clenched, as his knuckles turned white from gripping the pistol so firmly. The stranger burned hot with hate as no words could describe. The stranger’s cold dark eyes were an abyss of deep dark hell. If most people saw him in this moment they would have sworn he was the devil.

The stranger felt no remorse for the rapist’s death, as he had a very intimate memory stored in his consciousness. His gaze softened when he saw the unconscious body of the woman lying before him. Her beautiful long blond hair was matted with blood, and behind the blood and bruises he could see a beautiful figure.  Gently, he lifted the woman into his arms and carried her out of the room. Before he left, the stranger spit out a wad of tobacco juice on the dead man’s face, and spat at the owner,” Dyin ain’t much of a livin”. He then slowly walked out of the trading post.

Nestled in a small depression on the edge of the soaring Ozarks, sat the stranger wearily watching over a slumped figure. The bags stood heavy under the stranger’s eyes as he slowly redressed the wounds on the woman’s body. Her body had miraculously healed very quickly, revealing her full features. The light blue eyes, blond hair, pale smooth skin, soft features, voluptuous curves, DD breasts accentuated by the tattered blue dress she was wearing combined to give her a stunning body. “Hope she will wake up soon so I can get her out of here” as he glanced at the imposing walls of the mountains around them. Then stranger lit a match and pulled out a small cigar to pass the time. The endless plains stretched for miles in each way direction, only the mountains provided a break in the scenery. A slight rustling brought the strangers attention back to the woman. “Well hell,” he thought”, she’s gettin up”. The woman slowly stirred and moaned” Where am I, Who are you?” The stranger replied” Yer just north of the Ozark Mountains near Devin Holler, and I’m…,” he slowly spit out some tobacco juice,” the stranger”.

The woman’s eyes bulged and her heart started racing, “Are you going to kill me?” she asked, as she wiped the crust from her eyes. “I don’t kill women or children,” said the Stranger as he slowly shifted the cigar in his mouth,” I ain’t that cruel”. “I heard you are the deadliest bounty hunter in the west, why help me?” she squeaked. “Looks like you was in need of helpin with that big feller back thar, “the stranger replied as he blew a thick column of smoke in the air. “I can’t let nothin like that ever happen again…,” his voice trailed off as he gazed into the sun bleached landscape.

“Let what happen again?” she asked. The stoic stranger’s face fleetingly turned into one of deep sadness but as quickly as it went, it readjusted. “I can’t tell her now,” the stranger thought.  “We will both have to earn each other’s trust”. “So what’s yer name?” asked the stranger changing the subject. “Oh sorry,” she said, “I’ve forgotten my manners, I’m Monica, and by the way thanks for saving my life” as she grinned. “I don’t need no thanks ma’am, now where you livin at, so I can return you to yer mama and paw, youngin”.

Monica crossed her arms and said, “Well my parents are over six hundred miles away, and I just turned 22,”she said defensively. From what the stranger observed about Monica’s fair complexion and lack of a weathered exterior is that she was born from apparent wealth. “So what you been doin around these parts” examined the stranger? “Well…I decided I wanted to leave home and explore the Wild West almost like an explorer, “she replied grinning sheepishly. The stranger looked at her quizzically, “It too dangerous ‘roun here for a little lady like you”. “Little you say…hmm” as Monica smiled mischievously. Then it started, slowly but surely she started to grow.

Her legs started to grow longer, her breasts fuller, and her arms thicker. By the time she finished growing she stood around ten feet tall and breasts about the size of large water melons. Her extremely long legs were defined by the newly added length, while her dress lay in rags around her feet. Her naked pussy ached for contact, while her engorged nipples hardened. “I’m not so small now hmm… little man?” Monica smirked.

The stranger slowly looked at the tall naked Amazonian woman and his cigar just about dropped out of the large gape in his mouth. The feeling of his cock pressing against his pants just about drove him insane with lust, but a familiar haunting memory suddenly flooded back. The stranger finally composed himself and stated,” Well…I was just ‘ponderin and thought maybe, I might try to help you, but since yer so capable, I best be on my way” as he climbed on his pale roan. Monica’s face slowly changed from one of teasing to instant panic. “Wait”, she screeched as she brazenly ran up to the large horse. When Monica sprinted up to the horse her naked ten foot tall stature easily surpassed the stranger sitting on the sixteen hand tall horse. “I want to go with you…please” the beautiful blue doe eyes stared directly at him. “I knew she would jump for it”, the stranger thought as he slightly grinned. “Well… I’m not su…”, before he could finish, she had grabbed his arm and said” Pleeeease” his arm slightly touching her firm large breasts.

“Well that’s somethin I can’t argue against” as he nodded towards the mounds of flesh. “You dirty man”, she recognized, blushing as she dropped his arm. “Well…” he said taking the cigar out of his mouth and looking at it. He sighed, “I reckin I could always use someone to keep me company and you got a good set of skills, pretty one”. “Oh thank you… thank you”, she squealed as she hugged him again. The stranger looked slightly bemused as he sat being hugged by a smoking hot giantess. “Well… better shrink down and hop on… I don’t think my roan can handle ye at that size” remarked the stranger. “Okay” she conceded, as she shrank down.

“You might need this”, as the stranger tossed her an extra flannel shirt and jeans. She then smiled graciously at the dark clad stranger on the pale roan. Once dressed, the stranger then offered a hand to the now normal sized Monica. She then smiled as she took his hand and hopped on the horse. “Well where we are heading Mr. Stranger” she cooed as she moved her arms around the stranger. “I guess we might as well go lookin fer some employment” he said as they rode off into the ever extending shrub land. 

Chapter 3: The Man with the Harmonica

Year: 1873

Place:  Tucumcari City

Do you know anything about a guy going around playing the harmonica? He's someone you'd remember. Instead of talking, he plays. And when he better play, he talks.

The thunderous hooves of the roan beat the landscape mercilessly, while the horse’s breath came out in the cold early night air. Nostrils flared, the strong beast galloped towards the small town, the sweat pouring off its hide. The stranger gently pulled back the rains and the horse strode into an easy canter. They had been riding for over five hours to reach Tucumcari, to seek some employment. With his new companion in tow, the stranger felt different, as if a new spark had entered his life, but he had to be wary.

As they neared the town, the stranger slightly nudged Monica who had slept during the trip. “Where are we?” she sleepily asked.” Nearin Tucumcari,” he said. The city of Tucumcari stood nestled on a flat plain just three miles south of the Nazareth Canyon. It was a simple town, more accurately a one horse town. The local inn sat on the far right while the other necessary structure were situated on both sides of the path passing through and a railway ran adjacently to the town. The stranger slowly guided the exhausted roan to the stable next to the saloon. A young man was waiting outside, and popped up as he saw him approach. “Need yer horse stabled tonight sir?” asked the young boy. The stranger nodded silently as he got off the horse and handed the reins to the boy. He then offered a hand to Monica as she jumped down from the roan. “How long ya’ll plannin to stay?”asked the boy.

The stranger then flipped the boy a five cent piece and gruffly said “That gunna cover us?” “Yess sir,” said the boy as he took the roan in the stable. The stranger and Monica slowly walked inside the small inn. “Room for one please” said Monica, as the inn keeper approached. “That’ll be two dollars”, as he held out a greedy hand. The stranger took out a two wadded bills and gave the man. “You’ll be in room 203”as he gave them the key. They then left the counter and walked up to the dingy room. Once inside, the stranger plopped down on one of the beds and said, “Bess be getting some rest, we got a busy day tomorrow”. They both laid down and fell into a deep slumber.

The warm dirt fell through the man’s fingers as he glanced at the soil, slowly feeling the coarse texture. The air around him was muggy while the Georgia heat sweltered like an oven. “Jus about plantin season,” he thought as he whipped the mule, the animal panting with exasperation as it pulled the plow. A young boy of around six years walked up to his father and exclaimed, “Pa… supper is about ready”. “Awrite boy… go tell yer maw I’ll be there in a second”. The small boy slowly hopped away as if singing a happy tune and ran to catch bugs in the air. The father looked happily at the boy and smiled, he was content with his life, he had a successful farm, and most importantly a loving family. As the mountain men said he was, “gettin ‘head in life”.

As the plow gee-hawed around the roots, and the mule huffed, shots were heard in the distance. The father looked up from his position, leaving the mules as he ran barefoot, overalls flapping against his thin legs. He ran wildly through the briars and sumac, across the dusty gullies. Then a hard stock of a rifle met his head as he fell to the ground, a red headed union soldier, evilly smiled at him as he was held to the ground. In front of him lay the ruins of his home, his humble abode ripped apart by hungry bright orange flames of war. As this happened, his wife was being brutally raped as a group of soldiers gathered around, her cries reaching his tender ears. The father screamed, tears flowing down his cheeks as the union soldiers looked on in amusement. His wife’s shrieks quieting down as she slowly succumbed to the stress of death. The father screeched as he saw his boy shoved to the ground in front of him.  “Daddy,” the young boy cried, “Help me”. The father struggled against the man holding him but to no avail.

A scruffy union soldier with piercing black eyes walked up behind the boy and slowly raised his rifle. “Noooooooo…,” screamed the father as he twisted to get free of the soldiers grip. The fathers head was driven into the searing hot dirt, as he watched while the trigger was pulled and his young son fell to the ground. The boy’s young features contorted by death, as the father looked into those once innocent eyes.  The fathers heart was about to burst from his chest as he spat at the soldiers, as he was dragged towards a noose on a large oak.

The men hefted him on his pale roan and slipped the rope around his neck. The father’s charred, smeared, bloody face glared at the soldiers with eyes full of dark hate. “When I get to hell,” he spat, “I will make sure to rip all of you apart limb by limb”. The red headed union soldier laughed, turned the rifle into the air and fired… the horse darted forth… the body of the father swinging loosely by the noose around his neck. Then a voice was heard, “What’s wrong… stranger… what’s wrong”. The stranger woke up screaming, tears coming down his cheeks, as he glanced around the room. The stranger glanced over at Monica, her sparkling blue eyes full of care and compassion. The shaken stranger slowly got up, put on clothing and slowly walked out of the dark room.

 In the cold dark air, stood the stranger holding a thick piece of parchment, as he smiled at Monica next to him. “Looks like we got ourselves some employment” he drawled. On the front read, Wanted: El Lobo and gang; dead or alive; 20,000 dollar reward. “Oh… that sure is a lot of money,” she exclaimed. “I heard of him,” said the stranger as he cut off plug of tobacco and roughly shoved it in his mouth. “About one of the cruelest sons of bitches out there,” he snarled, “kills everythin’ he can get his hands on”. As this bout of conversation was occurring, in a dark corner of the station sat a figure holding a harmonica. “There they are,” the figure thought. He slowly moved the harmonica up to his puckered lips.

 Out of the blackness came an eerily dark sound, one of death, namely a harmonica. A dark figure clad in brown toting a Colt Single Action Army, strode up to the stranger while playing the harmonica. The stranger instantly recognized him, as he stepped down off the station. Spurs clanging, as the two men circled each other staring directly at each other not uttering a word. The sound of the harmonica still flowing throughout the tense air like a fast flowing stream. Both these dangerous men had known each other and were testing each other’s composure.

Once satisfied, the man with the harmonica slowly strode towards the stranger and pulled out a knife. Then the harmonica playing stopped as the man grasped the wanted poster and flung it to the ground at their feet. The man then passed the knife to the stranger, then amazingly the stranger cut his hand, red blood seeping out of the freshly cut wound. Handing it back to the man, as if doing it reciprocally, cut his hand as the blood flowed forth. The two men gazed at each other and clasped hands finalizing the deal that would bind them till death… droplets of blood falling on the poster of El Lobo…

Chapter 4: The Past

You with the reb army?

 In a left handed sort of way.

Quantrill’s Raiders- mighty tough outfit.

So I’ve heard.

The dispatch was filed March 8, 1866.

From: Northern Missouri Military District. Captain Schaefer, 8th Union Calvary, Commanding.

To; Headquarters, Georgia Military District, Dalton, Georgia. Major General Stevens, Commanding.

DAYLIGHT ROBBERY OF RYDER BANK, LEXINGTON, LAFAYETTE COUNTY, MISSOURI MARCH 4 THIS INSTANT… STOP… BANDITS ESCAPED WITH FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS IN UNION COINS…STOP…PURSUIT TOWARDS INDIAN NATIONS…STOP…TWO BANDITS FLED SCENE…STOP… ONE IDENTIFIED. DESCRIPTION FOLLOWS: JAMES MILNER AGE UNKNOWN, 5 FEET 10. BLACK EYES, THICK STUBBLE, BULLET SCAR ON LEFT ARM…STOP… WANTED BY U.S. MILITARY AS EX GUERILLA FIGHTER…STOP… MILNER REFUSED AMNESTY, 1865. ARMED AND DANGEROUS…STOP… SIX THOUSAND DOLLAR REWARD OFFERED…STOP… DEAD OR ALIVE.

The stranger stood on a ridge overlooking a flat plain. His gaunt face scanning the valley. The posse was hot on their trail, as they had just stolen six thousand dollars in cash. The robbery had gone to plan until a small force of Union soldiers had mysteriously appeared in the town. Then the real action started as James and the stranger, .44’s blazing, had hastily retreated to their horses, fleeing the scene. The posse was just far enough behind, as they ducked behind a ridge outside of town. However, dust filled his view as the riders came riding out of the tree line. “Riders ‘head,” yelled the stranger as he hopped on his roan. James Milner quickly turned, as he spurred his horse towards the Indian Nations.

After the death of his wife and child, the stranger had joined Quantrill’s Raiders to combat the Union forces during the latter stages of the civil war. He had ridden with the likes of Josey Wales, William Quantrill, Fletcher Taylor, Bill Anderson, George Todd, and Dave Pool, all legendary gunfighters. These gunfighters had terrorized Union Supply lines and struck towns across the Kansas- Missouri border. After Quantrill lost control of the raiders, the stranger joined up with “Bloody” Bill Anderson. After the war, he did as many did and refused amnesty. This refusal led many to have sizeable bounties placed on their heads, the stranger one of them. These men roamed the landscape, fighting and living like animals, always evading capture as they blended into the landscape. As the years passed, their numbers thinned and the guerilla fighters were almost forgotten. Now, only a few remember…

James trotted ahead of the stranger as they slowly rode into the Indian Nation. “Buck… remember…how you and Josey use to…,” his voice trailed off…

Josey and the stranger lay waiting in the tree line, the silent howl of the wind ruffling the heavy coats of the horses. The burly figure of Josey Wales looked at the stranger, and slightly nodded. The two men emerged from the wood line at a soft canter, their steely gazes focused on the road ahead. Then it happened, “Yeeeeeiiii,” the rebel yell sounded throughout the forest as both horses broke into a full gallop towards the hill. Behind the hill, William Quantrill let out a shrill yell as he dashed from the tree line into the swarming horde of Union soldiers as hundreds of raiders followed. Guns blazing, men shouting, smoke filled the battle as the raiders cut the Yanks down. Josey and the stranger emerged from the behind the hill cutting off the Union’s last line of escape. The two led the sweep of the area, essentially circling the convoy. The cloud of black powder stung his eyes as the blue uniforms dropped like flies. Lead flying everywhere as the raiders hipped and hollered as they fired their pistols. The horses trampling men underfoot, blood seeping into the dark ground, total chaos on the battlefield. As soon as they arrived, the raiders had left, only the remnants of the supply column left. Josey Wales and the stranger slowly disappearing into the thick Missouri forest.

The memories of their former friends flooded both their minds, as they gazed silently ahead.  The stranger kept an emotionless face as looked dense brush ahead. “You still mad ‘bout me callin ye Buck?” James asked. The stranger looked at him and deeply grunted. “Well hell, we found you in them woods, with that damn scar ‘roun yer neck and was chewin on that fresh deer you had kilt,” James paused, “Where in the hell did ye get that scar from Buck?” The stranger cringed slightly, “Ain’t none of yer damn business”. About that time, an arrow flew through the air hitting James square in the chest. “Aaaahhh,” he screeched as his body crumpled off his horse and hit the cold Missouri ground. The stranger spurred his horse forward twin .44 pistols blazing as he fired towards the source of the arrow. Jumping off the horse, he then grabbed James bloody form, chucked him on the horse and sped off into the wilderness.

Three hours later, James and the stranger were back in the heart of Missouri. James wound had stopped bleeding but the wound was festering rapidly. The stranger rapidly sawed off both ends of the arrow with his steel knife. “Jes keep still,” whispered the stranger as James writhed in pain, “I got to close this festerin wound”. The stranger reached into the fire and grabbed a hot iron, and placed a rag in James gaping mouth. The dull red iron singed as the flesh burnt away, as it slowly cauterized the wound. James screamed out in pain, his teeth vehemently biting the dirty rag. Milner’s glazed eyes slowly started to close as he drifted into a pain induced slumber. The stranger slowly helped his friend to the ground as the sun lowered in the distance, as the daylight started to fade.

The shadows of the campfire danced on the strangers face as he stared into the burning embers. The face of the man twisted as he stared into those glowing embers and thought of his place back in Georgia. James stirred, as he lay on his bed roll, his wound apparently bothering him. The stranger slowly got up and walked to check on the horses peacefully grazing in the field, the moonlight illuminating the forest. Suddenly, a branch snapped, the stranger spun around, hand on his pistol. Out of the forest, walked a fearsome black bear into the clearing sniffing around for food. The stranger warily eyed the creature as he rummaged through their equipment… then the hungry creature ambled towards the horses. The horses reared back in fear, as the beast approached, the stranger raised his pistol and fired into the black hulk of the creature. A shrill yelp was heard as the creature limped into the woods, the .44 caliber bullet was firmly lodged into its right leg. James jerked suddenly wide awake, “Hell was that Buck?” he asked. “Jus a bear, nothin to get worried ‘bout,” the stranger coolly said. The stranger slowly walked back to the fire, leaned against a log and pulled the large hat over his eyes.

Two weeks later the lone stranger traveled to Texas, as the search for the men died off. James had split off from the stranger in the Missouri Mountains, citing his wish to stay in the heart of the Confederacy. Before he left, James had given the stranger a small golden pocket watch. He had said, “Found this at yer homestead in the ruins of yer house, I was figurin you might be lookin fer it”. The stranger slowly nodded his thanks, as James walked into the thick countryside.

In the ever expanding plain, stood a modest homestead made of clay. In the front of the homestead stood a tall brick arch, a man hanging from it, as the body swayed back in forth. Underneath the body, a teenage boy lay on the ground, his dusty face streaked with tears. “Emilio,” the boy whispered to the body above him, “I shall have my revenge.” This is the last time the boy would cry.

The stranger rode up as the boy struggled to get up off the brown earth, his hands tied behind his back. Hopping off his horse, the stranger lifted the boy to his feet, as he cut the rope. The boy looked at the stranger, and said, “Take me to Dodge City”. As the boy hopped on, he removed a harmonica from his pocket…