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Paxton McAllister

Never did Paxton dream that one afternoon folly, hiding in the woodpile to peek at a bathing woman, would lead to so many deaths. Long was that westward chase. Then with nowhere to run, back to the wall, Paxton McAllister filled his hand. God may have had mercy, but he and Paxton had never met.

I was not more that one hundred yards into the river when the shot rang out. I was not hit nor my canoe. It came from the west shore, a campfire I now saw behind some deadfall. There was a shout. More men came running. Five more shots were fired at me, one hit, putting a hole in my craft just above the water line. The bullet lodged in my pack. I put my back to the paddle and made downstream toward the eastern shore.

These men were serious. For peeping on one fat woman they were trying to kill me? What would have happened if it were Trinity on the porch? I surely wished it had been. Looking at her would at least give some logic to this chase and maybe a reason for getting killed.

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Tom Livengood

I’d no intention of confrontation, but with at least twelve savages ahead of me caution was needed. In the brush well back from the ford I took a position that gave vantage to the crossing. I saw no one but waited, listening. I heard no birds and took alarm at this. I waited longer, just watching and listening.

To my left there was suddenly a crashing through the brush. I turned to see both Indian women captives, still naked, running right at me, then right past me. That they saw me I was sure. I could have reached out and touched either of them. As they passed my eyes followed them, but another crash through the brush brought me back around to the direction they came from just in time to see one of their Iroquois captors running after them, right at me. He was not ten feet from me at a dead run and he saw me. His stone ax he lifted and such a scream I’ve never heard. I stood up, my walking spear in my right hand. The point of the spear I raised up, the rear I braced with my foot.

Tyler James

If I slept any that night I certainly couldn’t remember it. Seemed I had stared at the darkness all night, sure I was to be imprisoned or hanged come morning. In less than a month I’d been drug toward California, beset by Indians, whipped soundly, and now jailed; and I was not yet twelve.

Dim came the dawn through the slits about my eyes. Both were now swollen and very sore to the touch. I was sure they were both black and blue. My nose had bled, but it seemed to be where it was. I’d a loose tooth, a cut to my chin and pain just about everywhere.
As I sat the bench in my cell I consoled myself by finding spots on my body that didn’t hurt, places they had missed, few there were.

My left ear didn’t hurt, my left leg felt normal. That was it; the rest of me had complaint aplenty.

Buck Moline

You don’t shoot five people, kill four, blind one and beat yet another without someone coming to look for you. It just doesn’t happen, yet I did not know what type of pursuit there would be nor by whom. Certainly the US Army was coming, but it was one of its soldiers who started the whole shebang. The Sheriff at this point couldn’t see his way clear to head up a posse. Taylor was a bit broken up over the whole affair. Irrespective someone would be looking. There were no doubt warrants for my arrest. Wary we rode.

Jesse Buxton

He and I made eye contact at the same time, it was Robert Myers.

With one arm he swept the hired lady out of the way, with the other up was coming a pistol. He shouted, “It’s him!”

Those were his last words as I was out with my pistol and just a blazing away. My left hand was reaching for its pistol before the right hand gun clicked an empty chamber. The other two men had also produced pistols and they died for the effort. In less than five seconds three men died, Robert’s only round missed, I had no idea where it went. I had emptied both handguns, and from the distance of less than six feet I believe every shot scored a hit.

I hit the door running as a stout red headed man was coming in. I had the momentum and knocked him back out the door. He landed flat on his back and slid off the porch. I ran past him giving him no never mind, grabbed up Jesus Christ’s reins and we were off at a sprint. Jesus Christ, he could run.

Lema

Many were the hard Western men who blazed the trails. We have all heard their stories. We even believed a few. Few still were the women on those western slopes. Their stories might have some merit. But both factions, men who would lie and did, women who were few and quiet, agreed campfire to campfire, Lema did not pack water for any man.

Jose Baca

Long before Buck and Lema Moline blazed their guns across the American West; before Paxton McAllister, Jesse Buxton, or Tyler James filled their hand, even before Tom Livingood’s lonely pre-colonial maroonment, there was a man in the new world to be reckoned with.

Jose Baca came to the new lands as a most unlikely Conquistador. He had love in his heart but vengeance in his purpose. His adversities were many; his enemies incessant. Yet a tougher man may have never lived.

He was a match indeed for a land yet untamed.

Brewster Daggit

The South had Jesse Buxton, but the North had Brewster Daggit. They were both legends up and down the Gray and Blue lines. No man wanted to meet either in battle. Most said that they should just drag up, go home, and let the two of them shoot it out; winner takes all.

It was generally agreed that the Southern boy was lightening fast and deadly accurate. Up against the likes of Brewster, he might draw first blood; just maybe. But to a man, everyone understood it would be suicide to try. No one, but no, one rankled Old Bud.

Jon McKay

I heard again those savage screams I had heard in my delirious dreams. They were coming—all of them. Arrows filled the air, whacking the wood walls of the cart.

“Load!” I yelled to Miranda, handing her the spent pistol. I didn’t even know if she could.

I leveled the Hawken and took another from his mount. I dropped it to Miranda, who was still fumbling with the pistol. She kept to her task.

The other long gun was a flint fowler. I cocked, aimed, and fired.

The horrendous blast took a third along with his horse, and both went tumbling over each other. The kick of the weapon did damage to my healing shoulder. I had no idea what she had in that old piece, but it packed a wallop at both ends.

Cal Cole

If you let me pass, I’ll be on my way.”
“Hardly.” he laughed, “No one messes with Bar B.”
“Well, I’m not about to be stomped by Bar B boys, that’s for sure.”
“I’ve no intention of stomping you.” he said. “I deal in lead.”
“And you’ll be the first to die.” I replied.
“What name do you want on your tomb stone?” he demanded.
I could see in his eyes he had intention.
“Cal Cole.” I sneered, and my pistol was out, cocked, and dead on his head.
“Cal Cole?” he repeated and his hands were going up. His counterpart was doing the same.
“Mr. Cole, we are so sorry, so sorry. Boys, drop your pistols, drop them now. Now! You have the road Mr. Cole. I’ll tend to the boys; you’ll have no more problem from the Bar B.