A Sniper’s Remorse (Chapter 1)

To kick off the New Year, here is the first chapter in my Novelette I have been kicking around.

 I will be adding subsequent chapters in the coming weeks.

I Hope you like it and let’s all have a Awesome 2017!! -TTH



The Bad Seed

Central Texas, 1984

It was mid-summer in the rural rolling hill Country just south of Lampassas, Texas. The green cedar thickets and blue bonnet fields dotted the rocky landscape as flocks of fat, orange breasted robins filled the powder blue sky. The sun was just coming up as two eleven-year old boys made their way across a cow pasture to a barbed wire fence that had seen better days.  As the boys quickly scaled the fence, they both noticed the NO TRESSPASSING sign attached to the fence post, but as always, they disregarded it and once on the other side, quickly took cover in a thicket of small cedars. Both boys were dressed in newly purchased woodland camouflage from head to toe, with the leader of the two, Sean, even sporting some green and brown face paint and a jungle boonie hat. They were both armed with pellet guns, Sean a .20 caliber Sheridan Sliver Streak and Allan, a Crossman 1377 American Classic Pistol with a skeleton stock. For all practical purposes they were there to hunt birds and anything else small enough that came across their path, but another reason, and one that can only be explained in the mind of a ten-year old boys fantastic imagination, is they came here to practice their “army” and “war” skills. Both boys had been fascinated with the military ever since watching the movie “First Blood” with Alan’s father a few months back. It simply amazed Sean and Alan how John Rambo had outsmarted the police in the woods by hand-crafting booby-traps and weapons and using something called “Guerilla Warfare”. Alan’s father, himself an Army veteran, was more than happy to oblige the two boys in their new-found hobby. He dug into his collection of old Army manuals and before long, the boys had a fair collection of books, magazines and movies to both learn from and fuel their active imaginations.

Sean threw back the bolt on his Sheridan and loaded up a .20 caliber pellet, he then pumped the gun four times and applied the push button safety. Alan followed suit. Sean gave a quick look left and right and then whispered to Alan “Hand signals from here on out, I’ll take point.” Alan nodded agreeably. Sean then bolted from his place of cover to another cluster of low cedar trees about 15 yards away. Once the hand signal for all clear had been given, Alan soon followed close behind. This process, including the occasional pot shot at a bird, continued up until noon when they reached a spring fed creek and pond a couple of miles away. Alan unslung his pack and brought out two brown paper sacks containing the boys lunches. As they sat upon a large flat tabletop rock, listening to the sound of the water flowing, the boys conversation varied from topic to topic as most eleven-year old’s always do. “So you gonna be able to go to the movies with me and my dad this Saturday? Red Dawn is playing and my dad says it is going to be really good!” Sean finished chewing his sandwich before he answered. “I think so. You think your dad can pay my way though? My mom doesn’t have much money since getting laid off at the cannery.” Alan smiled back at Sean. “Sure buddy, no problem.” The two boys shared many common threads that often united friends together for life. They both were only children and they both had lost a parent when they were very young. Sean’s father had abandoned them when he was only two and Alan’s mother had passed away when he was five from ovarian cancer.

“So you ready for sixth grade next year?” Sean asked smiling through a mouthful of ham sandwich. Alan smiled back and shrugged. “I don’t know, I guess.  There is gonna be some good looking girls next year, of that I am sure!” Sean responded with confidence. Alan chuckled nervously at the remark “Who you got your eye on brother?” Sean asked grinning with that mischievous smile that had already earned him a place as one of the best looking boys in school. “Nobody. You know I am not as good with girls like you are Sean!” Alan replied sheepishly. “Oh bullshit!” Sean replied.” You just gotta talk more bro, stop being so bashful! Next year, you watch, we are gonna get you a girlfriend!” Alan shook his head at the far-fetched ideal. “It’s not just that Sean. It’s how I look. I mean I am skinny with zits and you, well you play football.” Sean smiled and patted his best friend on the back. “We can fix all of that. We will start working out together a few times a week over at my house, in no time you will start bulking up! Don’t worry about it buddy!” Alan sighed and knew deep down his friend was just trying to make him feel better. Alan looked at his watch. “It is getting near one o’ clock, I guess we better make the circle and then head back, right?” Sean placed his trash in the bag and handed it to Alan and then looked up at the sky. “Before we go back, I have a ‘special operation’ I have been thinking about, you up for it?” Sean asked with that sly grin of his. “Sure, I guess, what is it?” Alan asked as he jumped down off the rock. “Just trust me bro, it is gonna be killer.” Sean replied as he un-slung his rifle and started down the trail.

They had been walking about half an hour, following a well used game trail when Alan heard the unmistakable sound of vehicle traffic. Both boys stopped and listened.” Is that the highway?” Alan asked looking at Sean for confirmation. “That it is my friend and I am glad to say I can now let you in on our next operation.” Alan gave a confused look as Sean unslung his rifle and took a knee in the trail. “We are going to practice our sniping skills bro, but not on tin cans or paper targets, but on real, moving targets!” Sean was almost yelling he was so excited. Alan’s mouth dropped open a little bit and after a minute he finally got the words out. “Are you fucking crazy Sean!” Alan exclaimed. “Shooting at moving cars with real people in them! Somebody could be seriously hurt! We could cause a serious accident!” Sean smiled and asked Alan to calm down and take a knee. “I am not talking about shooting the windows out bro, just the back bumper or something like that.” Alan took a knee, still shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s all in fun Alan, we are not gonna try to hurt somebody, geez!” Sean was now serious in trying to persuade Alan. “Why don’t we go back home and see if your Dad will let us shoot skeet again? That was fun, right?” Alan asked, now practically begging to abandon the ideal. “Skeet? Jesus Alan you are a wet blanket man! You are gonna have to change that if you expect to get a girlfriend this year and be more popular.” Sean let out an exasperated breath and started toward the highway. Alan stood there in the trail, thinking. Sean’s friendship was everything to him and he did not want to lose it. After a couple of minutes of consideration, Alan pepped up. “OK Bro! Wait up!” And with that, Alan trotted after Sean toward the highway.

The two boys squatted in a thick stand of cedar and pin oak behind a barbed wire fence around 15 yards from the road. “The way I see it is if we set up back here in these trees, we are gonna be completely out-of-sight to anyone from the road. I will lay here and you can get down there.” Sean pointed to a cleared space a few yards away. Alan nodded and moved into position, taking a knee. “Now remember, we are just gonna shoot at the back bumper, right, no windows?” Alan looked at Sean seriously. “Sure buddy, no problem. Just the back bumper.” Sean replied. “Let’s pretend we are setting up an ambush just like John Rambo did in First Blood!” Both boys smiled and gave an excited laugh. “And if there is any trouble,we RV at the pond, OK?” Alan replied. Sean nodded in agreement, his mischievous eyes flashing with excitement. Alan prepared to take the first shot. Instead of going prone like Sean, he decided to take a knee and use the cedar tree as a rest. The cars were moving fast. One by one they zipped by in a colorful blur. As he heard one approaching, he clicked off his safety and raised his rifle, getting a solid rest on the tree. As the vehicle passed, the vehicle filled his sights, a red truck. Alan aimed for the back of the truck and squeezed the shot. The pellet gun exhaled air and a small ding could be heard as the vehicle kept accelerating past. “Enemy Down!” Sean whispered excitedly, grinning from ear to ear. Alan gave a nervous smile and then slung his gun. “Now remember, just shoot at the back bumper!” Alan reiterated to Sean as he was setting up for the shot. “Yeah, Yeah, no problem.” Sean grumbled back, irritated at Alan’s worrisome attitude. Sean clicked off his safety and nestled the buttstock into his shoulder. The sound of the shot and the pellet hitting the car’s frame was almost instantaneous. “OK, you got one too, now can we go?” Alan asked Sean, gathering his things. “No Way partner, we still got enemies out there!” Sean replied with a hint of anger. “Dude, we are pushing our luck here, let’s go back to the pond and shoot some turtles or something!” Alan started walking away when Sean grabbed his arm from behind. “Hey man, you cannot chicken out on me! Grow some balls for God’s sakes!” Alan turned to face Sean and was met with his intense stare. After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Alan relented. “OK, one more car, but you shoot and I will spot for you.” Sean grinned and gave Alan a slap on his back. He then took a knee, using a small cedar tree as a rest.

Alan peered through the thick cedar and looked up the road. “OK, we got a blue four door car coming up. Get ready.” Alan quickly glanced at Sean to make sure he was ready. As the car passed their position, Sean fired. The sound of the air escaping the gun’s barrel and the explosion of the glass shattering was almost instantaneous. In slow motion, Alan saw the front passenger window explode and at the same time heard a woman scream. There was then a loud and violent cacophony of screeching tires and metal scraping on asphalt. “Holy Fucking Shit!” Alan screamed, his eyes bulging out of his head. “Come On!” Alan was 10 yards down the trail before Sean was moving behind him, laughing hysterically. “Did you see that crazy shit!” Sean yelled as they were running. “God all mighty, that window just exploded!” Alan was running as fast as he could in front him, his lungs and legs beginning to burn. By the time they got back to the pond, both boys were properly winded.. Alan put down his gun and backpack and placed his arms on top of his head to help him catch his breath. Meanwhile, Sean collapsed in a small patch of tall grass, still laughing. “You really think this is funny asshole?” Alan snapped, still out of breath, the words coming out in staccato fragments.”You may have fucking just killed somebody for all we know!” Sean just kept laughing, ignoring Alan. Alan paced, fear and anger simmering and apparent on his face. “I told you we were only going to shoot at the back of the car! Why the hell did you aim for the god damn window!” Sean stopped laughing and got to his feet. He brushed himself off and slung his rifle. “Why did I shoot at the window, I will tell you, because it was fun! It was a rush having something beside a bird or a turtle or a fucking tin can in the sights of my gun!” Sean’s eyes glowed with a strange light that made Alan pause. “Dude, you are talking crazy!  We need to get back to the house and find out what kind of damage you have done, I only pray nobody was killed.” Sean took out his canteen and took a long drink. His gaze shifted to Alan. “Damage I Have done? I think you need to replace that I with a WE my friend, you were there too, remember?” Alan’s eyes flashed and he quickly stood up. “Don’t even try to involve me in your loony scheme Sean! I never said anything about shooting fucking windows out remember?” Alan’s face was turning a deeper shade of red than it already was. “Regardless, I don’t think the cops will care much about what we “Intended” to do while shooting at cars on the fucking highway pal. Point being, we need to agree right now to keep our mouths shut, regardless of what has happened. Agreed?” Sean extended his hand and after a long pause, Alan reluctantly shook it and they both started down the trail back home.

As they crossed the pasture on the way back to the house, the faint sound of ambulance and police sirens could be heard, “Damn must have been serious, huh?” Alan looked at Sean with a worried look. “Get that look off your face!” Sean snapped. “Remember, we don’t know shit, we did not hear shit. We have been hunting on the far side of Grady Pond all day, OK?” Alan nodded with an unsure look, ashamed of even the implication of dishonesty. As they got to the front door both boys kicked off their boots and placed their guns in the corner. Alan noticed right away his father’s Size 13 boots were not there.  As they entered they were met by Alan’s silver haired grandmother, who lived just down the road. “Hey Gran-Gran, where’s dad?” Alan asked as he hugged and kissed her on the cheek. “Oh he heard the sirens down the road and wanted to go be nosy, you know him.” She smiled as she gave Sean a quick hug also. “You boys hungry? I am busy cooking Dinner right now, but I can fix you a snack.” “No thanks Gran-Gran, we are just gonna go watch some T.V.” Alan responded. The boys made their way into the living room and plopped down on the couch. “On Channel 14 the A-Team should be on” Sean said with some excitement as he propped his feet up. Alan looked over his shoulder and down the hall ensuring his grandmother was in the kitchen and out of ear shot.. “I can’t believe you! How can you be so calm?” Alan whispered, giving Sean an exasperated look. Sean smiled back as the A-Team theme music began playing on the T.V. and George Peppard and Mr. T saved the day. “You gotta learn to relax brother, seriously.” A sudden chill went down Alan’s spine as he noted the coolness in Sean’s voice. It was like he could do this every day of the week. Ten minutes later Alan’s father walked in the door. Alan noticed a serious look of concern on his fathers face. “Hey Dad what’s up?” Alan asked. “Been a bad accident down the road a piece, damnedest thing I ever seen…” his father replied. “Whatta you mean Dad?” Alan asked, trying to dig into the details, but not too aggressively. He walked over and sat down beside Shawn, giving him a friendly whack on the leg. Alan’s heart began thumping out of his chest. Oh God he knows! Alan thought to himself. “Well, all anybody knows right now is they was a couple from Dallas heading to Austin for the weekend. For some odd reason,most likely a blowout, the car left the road, hit the bar ditch and then rolled over three times. The man driving only got a fractured arm and some cuts, but the woman was ejected clean out of the car, through the windshield face first. She flew thirty feet before landing in a patch of cactus. She looked in pretty rough shape when they put her in the ambulance, I hope she makes it.” There was a long moment of silence between them as the boys traded nervous glances. Alan was frightened his dad might start questioning them about their day, but was relieved when his grandmother called them all to dinner and the subject was forgotten.

 The next day the boys decided to go into town to the arcade. When Alan’s dad picked them up he had some news. “Well it looks like that woman from that freak accident is gonna make it. I talked to Frank Grimes whose wife is a nurse and he said they had to do emergency surgery to remove her spleen. The Doctor also said she was going to need extensive reconstructive surgery for her face. Terrible thing, but at least she is alive.” Alan’s mind begin racing and an extreme sense of sadness came over him. At that moment he wanted to tell his dad everything, right down to the last detail. But before Alan could open his mouth, Sean spoke. “Wow, that is something Mr. Mead, do they have any ideal how the accident happened?” Sean gave Alan a cold look and slowly shook his head as if he was reading his mind about confessing and clearing his conscience.”No, that is still a mystery. The driver told the Sheriff that the last thing he remembers is the passenger side window shattering and then his wife screaming and all hell breaking loose.” When the boys got back to the house, Sean brought Alan back to his room and shut the door. “Listen man, we already agreed and shook on it to never discuss this or mention it, so why are you acting so weird? You’re dad is gonna think something is up if you keep on like this.” Alan looked at Sean with tears rolling down his cheeks. “Man, we did a terrible thing Sean, we hurt an innocent man and woman for nothing! I mean you heard my dad, they had to remove her friggin’ spleen! Jesus Man!” Alan’s voice was shaking, his hands trembling.”Keep your voice down for God’s sakes! You are gonna have to get your shit together Alan! What good would it do for us to confess? Ask yourself. We go to juvey hall for a few months and have our lives totally screwed before we even get to High School? No thanks bro.” Sean sat down on the bed and grabbed an issue of Soldier of Fortune and started flipping through the pages. “What good would it do? It would get this off our conscience Sean, that’s what it would do! I have not slept since all this happened!” Alan looked at Sean in disbelief. “Conscience? Alan you need to grow up man. Who gives two shits about conscience. And besides, you cannot tell me you did not get a rush from all that!” Sean smiled at Alan, his eyes sparkling with that same mischievous look he had back at the pond. Alan shook his head. “Rush! Hell no I did not get a Rush, I was shitting my pants! And you should be too! There is something seriously wrong with you Sean! Like I am not kidding, something mental!”

Alan sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands and begin to sob. “Man, you need to stop this crying shit. I thought we were both gonna be soldiers?” Sean put his hand on Alan’s back, trying to comfort him. “Soldiers don’t shoot or hurt innocent people Sean.” Alan snapped as he quickly wiped the tears from his eyes. “Innocent people?” Sean replied with a smile on his face as he walked over to the gun rack on the wall and removed his Sheridan. He opened the bolt to check it and then sighted down the rifle pointing it toward the bedroom window. “Innocence is a hazy concept in war. A very hazy concept.” Sean looked over at Alan and smiled widely, his eyes flashing with excitement. At that moment, a chill went down Alan’s spine. The distant look in Sean’s eyes made Alan realize this was no longer play-acting. Sean had become something cruel by definite choice. A feral nightmare born out of the imagination of children. Alan’s heart thumped in his chest. His mind raced. He realized in an instant Sean was something that he was not. Something that he refused to be and something he had to stop, no matter the cost.

To Be Continued……

A Christmas Memory: Santa and Sugar

Due to that dastardly condition called “Writers Block” it appears I will not have my next short story out before Christmas. So, I thought in the mean time I would give all my loyal subscribers out there a short Christmas memory from my childhood. I have found as I have gotten older and have watched loved ones pass on, these types of memories really start to have a more profound impact and meaning to me around the Holidays. I hope you enjoy reading it as much I enjoyed remembering it! -TTH



Christmas Eve, 1981

I was seven years old the year that I saw Santa almost get killed. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.

1981 was a very special year. I had asked Santa, the Big Man, for the gift to end all gifts. I had even made a special trip to Austin to see him at Barton Creek Square Mall to request it.

The gift I was asking for was the absolute pinnacle of a Kid’s dream Christmas. Every kid down through the years has had one of these. For Ralphie in the Christmas Story it was the Official Red Rider Carbine Action 200 shot Range Model Air Rifle with the Compass in the Stock. But for me in 1981 it was the Atari 2600 Video Game System Bundle that included two controllers and two games, Asteroids and Space Invaders.

It was a tradition in our household that on Christmas Eve everybody got to open their presents under the tree and then on Christmas Morning all the kids had their “Santa”. Well, this year, my parents had a surprise. After we had all opened our gifts and were sitting around drinking hot cocoa and eating some of mom’s scrumptious treats, suddenly our dog, Sugar, could be heard barking loudly outside. The barking continued for a while and then we could hear her growling and snarling. My dad got up quickly and went outside to investigate. For some reason, I was not allowed to go with him and was told to stay put and drink my cocoa. After about ten minutes, my dad returned, saying that Sugar had treed a possum, a very common occurrence for us since we lived far out in the country. Suddenly, there was a loud knock at the door. I can remember paying no attention to the knock, thinking it was one of my parents friends arriving late to the party. After the second knock my mom looked over at me and said “Why don’t you see who it is?” I casually walked to the door and opened it. There before me, stood a large, fat man dressed in a torn and tattered red and white outfit. He had a big band-aid on his leg ( I could see clearly through the shredded pant leg) and under his arm he carried a box wrapped in gift paper. His fake white beard was out-of-place and his hat sat crooked on his head. Out of breath, the man said “HO, HO, HO Merry Christmas Little Boy!” Of course, being just seven years old, my eyes got wide and I started jumping up and down with excitement, ignoring the flaws in Santa’s costume for the more important subject of GIFTS! Santa limped into the house, shut the door and was greeted by everybody in the living room. For some reason all the adults, including my mom and dad were stifling hysterical laughter, like a secret joke had just been told and I was the only one who did not get the punch line. We will come back to that.  “I understand you wanted something very special for Christmas this year, is that right, little boy?” Santa asked. Of course I was still jumping up and down like a monkey on crack, but managed to blurt out “Yes! I asked for an Atari 2600 Video game System Santa!!” “Well since you have been a good little boy, here is something my elves managed to make just for you.” Santa replied. Hysterically, I took the package and immediately began tearing into it. Looking back now, the man’s outfit literally looked like it had been put through a wood chipper! Tearing through the wrapping paper, I gleefully and carefully removed the gaming system. My dad had already pre-connected everything, so in just a few minutes I was blasting away the universe with Space Invaders. The fact that Santa had looked like he had just been in a near fatal car crash quickly faded from my mind as gaming euphoria set in….

It was not until I was around age 10 that my parents actually told me the complete story of that night. A  friend of my dad’s, from work, Louie, who was unmarried and sported a nice “beer belly” year around, had agreed to play Santa and make the special delivery. He had been told to come around to the front door, but for some reason had decided to go around to the back door, through the back yard where our dog, Sugar was kept. Bad Mistake. Sugar was a blue lacy hunting dog, about 50 pounds and snow-white in color. She was not a mean or vicious dog, but was extremely protective and a very good watch dog, especially against strangers dressed in red and white outfits!! Louie told my Dad as soon as he came through the gate, he saw a white blur and was immediately was being bit on the leg by Sugar. By the time my dad got out there, Sugar had managed to tear apart Louie’s entire Santa’s outfit and give him a nice bite on his leg to remember her by. My dad cleaned up the wound, which was not  bad and put a band-aid on it. Since Sugar had got all her shots, there was no need for any further medical attention. Of course my dad apologized to his friend, but the man said it was his fault since he forgot to come around to the front door.

So that was the year Santa got attacked by my dog Sugar.


Our Dog Sugar was shot and killed in 1985 by a rancher, who thought she was running his cattle.

My dad’s friend, Louie, who played Santa that year, passed away in 2003 from Cancer.

My Mom, who made Christmas so magical every year for us kids, passed away in 2011 from emphysema.

But my Dad and my Brothers are still here and now I have my Own Family, and every Christmas we remember and tell this story to my Kids.

I Thank God for the ultimate gift, which is Christ Jesus the Lord and Family and memories like this!

From my Family to Yours, I Wish All of You a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.


Update 11/30/16



Since changing the format of the blog I have been getting emails asking when I will be posting again and the short answer is as soon as the next story is done. I am sort of a perfectionist guys, so bear with me!

I hope to have my next short story, titled “A Sniper’s Remorse” before Christmas.


Until then, Stay Dangerous out there!




A Border Reckoning

(Authors Note: There are no quotation marks in this story, so be warned!)


Northern Mexico, 1901


This land is Desperation and Hardship.

Everywhere the cracked dry red earth springs forth thorny reflections of violent resilience, as if creation itself is nodding its weary head to the inevitable conclusion of the despair that surrounds it. In a canyon named resortes rojo, a large black seep in a red rock wall drained slowly down into a watery pool creating an oasis in multiple stands of juniper, cottonwood and pinyon trees. Shaded from the tortuous sun, this place is a momentary reprieve for both the sparse resident and weary traveler alike, including four Texas cowboys and forty-three head of stolen mexican mustangs. As the horses watered behind a well-made picket line and the men set up a small overnight camp, a pair of young dark eyes hidden in a small cave far above them watched their movements intently. The eyes belonged to a 12-year-old lipan apache boy, wiry and tall for his age, his muscles stretched over his long frame like taut steel cables while his clay colored skin was already rough-hewn, with his pores blasted by relentless sand and wind, the moisture of his youth crucified long ago. His coal-black hair was shoulder length and unkempt, his bangs long enough to partially cover the raised crimson-purplish scar on the left side of his face that began dangerously close to his eye and ended at his chin. As the boy traced the long scar with his finger, in his mind flashed the image of the man who had put the scar there two years ago. The man had whispered into the boy’s ear like some deranged drunk lover that this was going to be a“forget me not” scar, a warning never to steal from him again. The boy remembered the bastards holding him down as the red-hot blade seared deep into his face, the smell of his own burnt flesh still fresh in his nostrils and nauseating him to this day.

 The boy waited until well after sundown until the men were fast asleep and snoring like a pack of hogs, save a sentry armed with a repeater perched on a high shale ledge overlooking the camp who unlike his compatriots was not fast asleep, but well on his way soon enough. With a three-quarter moon overhead, a broad carpet of soft white light enveloped the red canyon walls and created luminous shadows that danced in the firelight like mischievous children. The boy moved quiet and deliberate until he was out of the canyon and atop his bay mare, Cricket. He then raced back to the band of lunatics he had taken up with who were camped several miles away on the western side of Montana del lobo. Upon entering camp the boy reported what he had witnessed at the canyon to the leader of the group, a mexican army deserter named Diaz. It was Diaz who had found the boy wandering the western tablelands weeks after the Texans had murdered his family. Often the boy considered how the smallest choices can make the biggest difference in ones life. If his father would not have insisted he go hunting that morning, the boy would have joined his ancestors that day as well. When he returned from the hunt late that evening with a doe and sow pig hung over the back of his horse, he found the entire camp had been rode through and burned.  His father and uncle has both been shot through the head and strung up upside down on a tall cottonwood, their arms hacked off and their eyes gouged out. Their manhood and balls had been cut off and stuffed in their mouths. His poor grandmother had been stretched over a wagon wheel and then set on fire with coal oil, her blackened shriveled body a grotesque statue of suffering. It took the boy a while to find his mother, the bastards had drug her a ways  from camp with a rope around her neck; then gutted her like a pig, the four-month old  fetus that had been the boy’s sister growing inside of her had been ripped from her womb and impaled on a sharpened paloverde pole made into a roasting spit. The charred remains of the fetus and the bloody black umbilicus hanging from it were a grim reminder that human life was cheap here, and regardless of age or innocence, held no sentimental place of reservation.

Diaz quickly called a haphazard council and an ambush was planned for just before dawn, only a few hours away. The groups number currently stood at ten fighting men, with one man injured. The boy was not counted and considered a half-ass scout at best. Their real scout, another apache named Parsons, had taken the boy under his wing and occasionally when out on the trail, showed him how to cut and read sign. Tick, a black french creole mongrel from the swamps of Louisiana had been wounded in the leg during a mail-coach robbery a few days prior and was laid up and useless for fighting. The rest of the men were banditos, save two white men. Grissom, a former US Army cavalry Sergeant and Spoon, a cow puncher from New Mexico. After the meeting had broken up, the boy walked over to Diaz’ shanty where he found him sitting outside cleaning a mauser by the light of a lantern. You reckon these cowboys are the ones that killed my family like they killed Parsons? Diaz disassembled the rifles bolt while pondering the boy’s question. Hard to know Diaz replied. They have been killing small groups of indians all around these parts lately. The boy studied Diaz by the light of the lantern. He had a large flat face with a squashed nose and large black eyes. His hair was long and greasy like his. He was missing three teeth in the front from where a mule had kicked him. If you want to shoot one of the bastards, I will let you mijo, makes no difference to me. I am letting Parsons get his revenge and I get 40 horses out of the deal! Diaz smiled widely, proud of the good fortune that had seemingly fell into his lap. The boy tried smiling back, but just looked down at his feet awkwardly, unsure of how to feel, but feeling anger and loneliness all the same.

After a small supper of beans, the boy laid down by the fire, curled up with a blanket and drifted off. He dreamed he was at a river, him on one side and his family on the other. His father was motioning for him to cross but he was scared. The current was swift. His father kept calling out to him but he could not hear his words for the roar of the water. A hawk called above him and when he looked up the sun blinded him. He tried to see his father once more and then suddenly, he was awakened with a swift kick to his side. The boy rose suddenly from his blanket, his fist raised in contempt. Easy there youngster. It was Spoon. He was a tall thin white man with a shaved bald head and a black handlebar mustache flecked with grey. He said he had hired on to work for a rancher near Roswell  but got in a fight in a saloon and in the scuffle, shot and killed a whore and a local banker named Peterson. I Did not mean to kill that whore he said in a mournful tone, but the banker?  well hell, who gives two shits about a banker anyways? He often bragged there was a $500 bounty on his head in New Mexico and Texas, but nobody much believed him. Diaz says you can come along to help us drive them horses back, we leave in an hour, so be ready. Spoon handed the boy a New Service Colt revolver and gun belt. The boy took the rig gingerly as if he was handling a basket of eggs. Took that off one of those teamsters on that mail run. Damn fine Weapon. Spoon smiled at the boy and spat in the dirt and clamored off toward Diaz’ tent with a gourd of tizwin in his hand.

The group rode out well before dawn. It had gotten much colder, so the boy imitated Grissom, who had tied a handkerchief around his face to block the cutting wind. As they neared the mouth of the canyon they found a shallow wash with waist high banks where some sparse cholla and whitethorn were growing to park the horses out of the wind. As Diaz quietly hobbled the stock, Grissom unholstered a Winchester carbine from his saddle rig and handed it to the boy. It’s loaded up but here are some spare shells anyways. The boy tucked the shells away and slung the carbine across his back. Grissom held a finger up to his lips for the boy to be quiet from here on out and then nodded his head toward the top of the cliff for the boy to lead the way. The pair crawled on all fours almost the entire way until they found the entrance to the small cave, both of them praying aloud that no rattlesnakes or mountain lions had moved in during the night. The boy carefully peered down into the dark abyss of the canyon. The warm orange light from the campfire had died down some, but still reflected off the red rock walls and revealed the three sleeping cowboys. The sentry, now fast asleep like his friends, sat on top of a large rock promontory that overlooked the horse corral, his hat tipped down over his eyes and  a carbine laid across his lap. Grissom pointed where he wanted the boy to take up a rifle rest to cover the cowboys while he moved to a place where he could cover the sentry. The boy copied Grissom as he removed one of his boots to use as a rifle rest. As the boy sighted down the carbine he noticed movement down below. It was Parsons. He wore no shoes or hat and had his face and body completely smeared black with axle grease. His bow was slung low across his back with a quiver full of arrows, and a large bowie-knife strapped to his leg. Both men watched Parsons slip through the mouth of the canyon, using the shadows of the tall rocks along the flanks.  Parsons closed the distance between him and the lookout and stopped, kneeling behind a set of large rocks with pinon scrub. He took the bow from his back and notched an arrow. As the boy’s eyes were trying to focus in the low light, the small cane arrow had already flown, its flight short and straight with the only sound being a sickly wet slap as the arrow found its mark right above the sentry’s adam’s apple. The man suddenly dropped the carbine and put both his hands to his throat as if he were choking at supper, his eyes were wide and scared, frantically searching for a reprieve from the pain. Blood sprayed from the wound like a fountain, covering the brown earth and rock like some ancient mayan sacrifice.

The indian quickly closed with from behind on the man’s position, taking control of his convulsing body and bringing him down to the ground behind the large rock. A few moments later, the black-faced indian appeared like a ghoulish specter, slowly lurking toward the campsite like some strange night creature of mexican fairy tales. His knife, covered in blood, looked black against the backdrop of the eggshell moonlight. Cock your rifle boy. Grissom whispered as the pair both drew a bead on the three men below. Parsons stopped behind a boulder and whistled, stirring one of the cowboys awake. Before the poor soul could get the sleep out of his eyes an arrow pierced his right eyeball with a swoosh. The boy jumped as Grissom shot the second cowboy through the chest as he was bringing his pistol from underneath the blanket. With that Parsons let out a war yelp and charged the remaining cowboy with knife in hand. The young cowboy panicked as he tried to get the gun out of the holster laying beside him, but it was too late. Parsons was already on top of him, the cowboy managed to let out one blood curdling scream, before Parsons delivered the death-blow, sinking the knife deep into the boy’s heart. Parsons then stood and raised his bloody knife to the night sky, his profile illuminated by the campfire, he let out a guttural yelp that originated from a place deep within his soul, a place of pain and loneliness. This was revenge. A deep seeded hate that boiled out like a wildfire consuming the countryside. It was a familiar sound the boy had heard many times from war parties of neighboring clans when they visited upon the white eye the same pain they had caused. The boy had to restrain himself from joining in, but this was not his hunt. this was not his kill. That day still awaited him.

Parsons went around and collected scalps from each of his victims, the four bloody pieces of matted hair and skin the only reminder of these cowboys short and meager existence in this brutal place. Grissom and the boy made their way back down to the arroyo where Spoon sat asleep in his saddle, half drunk, and Diaz sat smoking a cigar, watching the Dawn begin to break and the purplish light spread over the canyon like a familiar blanket. We heard Parsons hoop and holler so I guess he got his scalps? Diaz asked the boy. The boy nodded and Diaz grinned. Alright then, let’s go get them horses! Diaz remarked with his toothless grin. When they arrived Parsons had already looted all the bodies, and took one of the dead cowboys mounts, a fine, tall black stud for his own. Spoon noticed the new carbine Parsons was now cradling like a newborn babe in his arms. Whats that you got there Parsons? A New repeater? Whats that writin’ on the side of it there? Parsons held up the gun with bloody hands, not really sure what Spoon was talking about. Looks like an inscription of some sort. ‘J.T.’, huh, must have been the poor bastards initials. Parsons nodded indifferently and slid the carbine back in the saddle scabbard. By the time they drove the herd to the far side of montana del lobo the boy and his mount were exhausted. Tick had made some much-needed repairs to the horse corral and was waiting for them when they arrived, waving his hat and yelling them though the gate. That night everybody got drunk and celebrated. Parsons had riden over to Valle Azul and traded a horse for food and a case of mescal. Diaz hooped and hollered, firing off his revolver wildly. Grissom broke out a fiddle and started sawing a lively tune. Tick, with a half bottle or better of mescal in him, hopped on one leg like some carnival act, flailing around to the music in a wild display of grievous tomfoolery, finally falling down face first in a drunken heap. Spoon and the boy sat by the fire, watching Parsons clean and examine the new carbine he had taken off the murdered cowboy. Well Parsons you feel better now you killed them boys that killed your family? Spoon asked, Parsons stopped polishing the rifle and looked at Spoon through the crackling floating embers of the fire. There was complete silence between them. After a while Parsons went back to polishing the rifle. Damn indians, you can never figure em’ Spoon commented as he spit into the fire. After a moment he got up and stumbled to his tent where almost immediately the lantern went dark and snoring could be heard.


The next morning the boy awoke to a gunmetal grey dawn and the smell of frying bacon and coffee. Grissom’s coarse voice soon broke the morning peace. Come on and get yourself some of this boy, we got a long day ahead of us. As the boy slowly made his way to the fire Spoon appeared out of his tent, looking as if he had been bushwhacked by road bandits and squinting at the new day as if the morning light were a pack of unwelcome solicitors banging on the front door of his brain. He stumbled out to the jakes and disappeared there for a considerable amount of time. Soon Diaz appeared, looking disheveled but somewhat jolly. Change of plans. Me, Spoon and Tick will take 30 head to the trader. I want the boy, Parsons and Grissom to take the remaining head up to that bastard Colonel Parker to trade for guns and ammunition. Grissom cussed under his breath and headed for the corral saying something about being a wet-nurse to savages. By the time the boy was saddled up and ready to ride, Parsons and Grissom were already leading the string of ponies out of camp. The boy trailed two mules to haul their return load of guns, both of them stubborn and ill-tempered animals. The triplet of riders and beast rode east with the sketch of pale blue mountains floating ahead of them with a set of small scribbled valleys in between twisting like a constrictor with no pattern or design. They camped in a small stand of cottonwoods near a trickling creek at sundown and early the next morning started off on the final leg of the trip where narrow winding valleys and red stone cliffs gave way to a never-ending stretches of white soda flats where the boy thought they might never see water again but Parsons managed to find a small spring where they all drank like fishes and the horses drank so much they laid down in a small stand of pinon and cottonwoods and slept for a while. They rode the rest of the day across the flats until sunset when they finally pulled into a silver mining camp that set at the base of some low pockmarked foothills covered with cholla and palovede called El lugar de las aguilas.

Grissom led the horses down a crowded street of miners and drovers to a corral that sat at the back of a two-story clapboard building marked ‘oficina and cantina’ Parsons dismounted and nodded for the boy to do the same. The boy felt eyes from all directions studying them. They tied their horses and waited for Grissom to join them. As they entered through the saloon doors, the sweet stench of whiskey and sweat was overwhelming and the din of drunken men’s voices drowned out all reason. Grissom made his way to the bar, navigating around crowded tables of miners playing poker with consumptive whores loitering like buzzards. Above the bar a stuffed mountain lion sat watching the pitiful proceedings, indifferent to the carnival scene below him. Whatta you have? The bartender asked. He was a large white man, at least six feet tall with an ox blood-colored boulder hat and arms like pine knots. Three rye, Grissom responded. The bartender wiped his brow with a rag and poured out one drink. You can stay but the two savages have to go, Colonels orders. Grissom paused, taking stock of what he had just heard. Grissom looked at the bartender with slight contempt and then drained his drink in one go. He turned to Parsons and nodded for the door. Parsons grabbed the boy by the arm and led him to the door. Grissom then nodded for another drink. Need to see the Boss, got horses to trade. The bartender again wiped his face and brow as he poured the drink. Upstairs, last door on right. Grissom downed his drink and laid a crisp five dollar bill on the bar and set the glass on top of it. As Grissom topped the stairs, a thin sickly mexican whore, scantily clad was leaning on the railing. Ola cowboy. Grissom ignored the woman and kept walking. The small corridor reeked of cigar smoke, kerosene and sex. At the end of the hall sat a bald squat man with a long black handlebar mustache cradling a double barrel 10 gauge. Grissom nodded to the man. See the Colonel? the man asked plainly. Yeah, got horses to trade, Grissom replied. Surrender your weapons the man said bluntly, holding out his hand. Grissom walked over and handed him his Colt. The man stuck the revolver in his waistband and rapped on the door. Enter! a deep voice called out from the other side.

The guard opened the door and nodded to Grissom to enter. Colonel William Frances Parker, United States Army retired, sat behind a large custom rosewood desk with his left leg feet propped up smoking a large mexican torpedo cigar. Parker was in his late-forties, with reddish blonde hair cut short and combed over and a neatly trimmed mustache. His steel blue-grey eyes seemed to look beyond the measure of men, seeking their unspoken agendas. It was said he had fought with Crook in the Apache Wars and actually shook Geronimo’s hand at his surrender. The room was freshly painted and smelled of cedar and sandalwood. A large bookcase containing several thick volumes on the History of the Roman Empire and Roman Military Tactics sat in a corner with several framed military commendations and awards populating the wall around it. Grissom’s eyes were drawn to a custom-made cedar gun cabinet with an etched glass door that took up one wall entire. It contained a Krag ’92, a ’95 Winchester and a ’97 Winchester Pump 12-Gauge.  A large painting of a four masted Man of War engaged in close quarter cannon battle with a brass plate stating “The Great Nile Victory, 1798” hung behind his desk.  Grissom also noticed the Colt 1900 Pistol which lay underneath a 3 week old newspaper from St. Louis. Sgt. Grissom! Well I’ll be damned! Parker’s feet quickly came down on the floor with a thud as he stood, limping on his left leg as he came around the desk. I heard you were killed in a skirmish near Juarez last year! Parker extended his hand and Grissom shook it with a soldier’s firmness. Grissom laughed. Yes sir, I heard that one too, but here I am, alive and well. The Colonel let out a hearty laugh and slapped Grissom on the back. So you are Sergeant! So you are! Remind me again, when did you get out of the Army? The Colonel asked, limping his way back around to his chair behind the desk. Around two years ago sir. Was at Fort Duncan the majority of my tour. Parker struck two matches and re-stoked his cigar while studying Grissom closely through the blue smoke. Fort Duncan, nothing short of the devils asshole! Parker shook his head and closed his eyes, as if trying to dissuade the memories from lodging in his brain.

Have a seat Grissom. Parker motioned his hand toward a chair. He then opened a desk  drawer and removed two glasses and a bottle of single malt scotch whiskey. He poured a finger in each glass. To your health sir! Parker said as he downed the drink. Grissom did the same and smiled. That’s fine whiskey Colonel. The Colonel poured each man another. So Colonel is it true what I heard about you? That you killed ten Comanche in a skirmish in ’96 up at Fort Stockton before being wounded in the leg? The Colonels face grew dim. Yes Grissom it’s true. But the part of the tale they leave out is how we lost 8 good soldiers that day. Those damn Comanches were like flies. The Colonels voice drifted off, his grey eyes staring off into a place beyond the horizon. The room went silent for an entire minute. Yeah and after getting a Comanche lance in the leg, the Army medically discharged me and here I am!  So Grissom, what brings you to my fine camp? Horses, Colonel. I have ten good ponies I would like to trade for rifles and ammunition. The Colonel paused. Horses? How many head? The colonels eyes studied Grissom now as he took a long drink. Ten Head, all good stock and in return I would like rifles and ammunition. I see. Well I won’t ask where the stock came from because as you know I run a fairly loose operation here. The Colonel gave a sly smile and Grissom nodded to the implied notion.

He knew the Colonel had set up shop here three years ago, at first trying to buy out some very lucrative mining claims and then when that failed, burning out the miners and their families and hijacking their claims with his hired army of ex-saddle tramps and mercenaries. He had also used his shady connections in the Army Ordnance Supply chain to find out railway delivery schedules so he could conveniently rob Federal weapon supply and payroll trains and blame it on Mexican bandits or Apache war parties.. Who you running with now Grissom? You still with Diaz and his band of cut-throats? Why you have not took my offer to hire on with me is beyond everything! I will be running all the rackets in this province soon Grissom, and before long, all of Northern Mexico if I am lucky, all the small-timers will have to kick-up 50% or get planted, it’s that simple. Why don’t you join me while you still can? The Colonel looked at Grissom solemnly, waiting for a response. Grissom just smiled. I kinda like my freedom Colonel, after a decade of Army life, not having to answer to somebody is nice for a change. The Colonel laughed heartily. Answer!? Hell boy, we all gotta answer one way or another! Now Let’s go take a look at that stock and see what we can work out. The Colonel finished his drink, stuck the Colt in the army issue flap holster and made his way to the door. The guard stood when the Colonel walked out and went before him downstairs clearing out the drunks and dregs.The saloon quieted as he made his way downstairs, each man eyeing him with a sense of both fear and reverence.

Parsons and the Boy were sitting outside the saloon on a bench sharing a piece of venison jerky when the group came out. As they passed, the boy’s eyes met the Colonels and his blood ran cold. Those same eyes belonged to the man who had cut his face two years ago! The boy felt heat from the top of his head down into his feet. It was like liquid fire, burning, torturing, cauterizing his insides. The boy feared he would burst from the hate growing inside of him! So many thoughts race through his mind. He could kill the sumbitch right here. He had his revolver. No, there were to many guards around. Too many witnesses. But hell, maybe he wanted a lot of witnesses, so these folks would know what he did. Best to stay calm. The boy steadied himself and took a breath. As the Colonel passed the two indians, he eyed Parsons warningly. These two indians are with me Colonel, Grissom motioned for Parsons and the boy to stand up. The Colonel stopped and inspected the two indians with a face of disdain and scorn. How old is this kid? The Colonel asked Grissom. Somewhere’s around 12 I think Colonel. We found him wandering in the desert a year or so back. Said his family got killed by Texas bandits. The Colonel turned his head to the street and spat and then turned and stared at the boys face. Murdered huh? How awful! Lot’s of bandits and cut-throats here about’s doing all kinds of evil. As he was about to walk off, the gleam of the Winchester Parsons cradled in the crook of his arm caught the Colonels eye. Nice Winchester you got there indian, may I? Parsons looked at Grissom who quickly nodded his head for him to comply with the Colonels request. As the Colonel turned the rifle over in his hands, the inscription shown in the bright sunlight “J.T.”, is that your initials indian? the Colonel asked, those grey eyes staring a hole through Parsons now. Parsons looked away and shook his head no. None the less, it’s a very nice rifle, can I buy it from you? Say fifty dollars American? Grissom’s mouth dropped open about the same time as Parsons. Before he could think about it, Parsons accepted the offer. Excellent! the Colonel replied, grinning from ear to ear, his eyes quickly shooting Timmons a weary. secretive glance. Timmons, Pay the man! Timmons promptly reached into his pocket and counted out five ten-dollar bills to Parsons and took the rifle. OK Gentleman, show me these horses! the Colonel’s voice boomed as he started toward the corral.

Parsons and Grissom started toward the corral with Parsons examining his new fistful of greenbacks and the Colonel following close behind. Timmons then without missing a beat, promptly rapped the boy upside the head with the butt of the Winchester, sending him to the ground with a thud. In the same moment as Grissom was turning to see about the commotion, the Colonel presented his Colt Automatic from his holster, and calmly shot Parsons in the back of the head, the explosion of the gunshot piercing the evening stillness and at the same time deafening all around with a stinging whine. The bullet exited right above Parson’s right eye, sending a mottled combination of white and grey matter mingled with blood spewing out into a wide luminous cone, most of it ending up in Grissom’s face and eyes. Parsons went limp and dropped like his backbone had been snatched out by some mysterious apparition. Grissom blindly grabbed for his revolver like a man groping in the dark for a life line but remembered in a hurried flash that he had been disarmed earlier by the guard. God-dammit Colonel! What have you done! Grissom yelled. As Grissom wiped the last of the splintered bone fragments and brain muck from his eyes, he realized at least five rifles were drawn down on him. The boy lay knocked out cold on the ground, the back of his head bleeding with Timmons standing over him gloating. Colonel! What the hell is this about! Grissoms face was red now, spittle flying with every word. What this is about Sergeant. Grissom is a cold-blooded bushwhack. This here carbine belonged to one of my best men, James Tobin or “J.T.” as it is inscribed right here on his gun. The Colonel grabbed the rifle from Timmons and held it up like evidence in a court room. With that the Colonel walked over to Parsons body as it lay crumpled on the ground, reached down and removed the fifty dollars from his pocket. That black stud right there that the indian rode in on was also J.T.’s. Now I don’t have anything against stealing horses, hell I steal horses everyday, but this was more than stealing horses Grissom. You and your band of cut throats murdered and scalped four of my men for 43 head of worthless stolen mexican mustangs! I should just shoot you like I did this damn indian, but you served your country Grissom and deserve to be hung like a white man I suppose. Go fetch that lazy drunk-ass sheriff and tell him to come put these two in the jail for the night. The Colonel spit in the road and stuck the Colt back into his waistband. What about the boy? Grissom asked. He did not take part in it, let him go! The Colonel looked down at the boy on the ground and spat on him. No I can’t do that Grissom. This boy belongs to a clan we tried to kill off a while back. You see that scar on that little bastards face! The Colonel pointed to the boy’s face, spittle flying in the air as he did.. I gave that little sumabitch that scar and warned him and his family not to stick around this country! But did they listen? Hell no! The Bastards were sitting on some of the best prime mining dirt in this territory and would not move! We tried everything but the savages refused. The next morning we went back and killed everybody there but I guess this little bastard got lucky that day. No, the boy hangs with you tomorrow at Noon. I will send a priest over in the morning if you want to get square with the Almighty, although with the scum you been runnin’ with, I doubt it will help. The Colonel shook his head in disgust and then walked off toward the saloon.

Directly a drunk mexican wearing a floppy brimmed hat and a thin hammered piece of tin fashioned to resemble a sheriffs badge came and collected Grissom and the boy. The boy was still groggy from being knocked over the head and had a deep gash in his scalp which was still bleeding. Grissom took his handkerchief and applied pressure to the wound. He then helped him to his feet.The mexican prodded the pair with a double barrel 10 gauge across the street to a makeshift jail in an old run down clapboard  building that had once been a freight warehouse. The “cell”  was nothing more than an oversized freight cage that smelled of stale piss. Grissom laid the boy down on the small bed and covered him with a threadbare blanket. That bastard Colonel killed my family. The boy’s words were groggy but still filled with anger. Yeah kid I know, he has killed a lot of families around here. Grissom took off the boy’s boots, then removed his own and jumped up to the top bunk and laid down. We gonna hang tomorrow? The boys question hung like heavy grey smoke in the room. Yeah kid, we are. Grissom answered, trying to choose better words that might comfort the kid but giving up. I will try to talk to the Colonel again tomorrow, see if he will see reason and let you walk away. Grissom closed his eyes and the last thing he heard before drifting off was the boy quietly chanting an apache death song.


The next morning the sunlight spilled through the small narrow window in the cell and Grissom was awoke by the clanging of  keys as the hungover sheriff struggled to open the cell door. The boy swung his feet down to the floor and started putting on his boots. Colonel wants to talk to the boy. The mexican swung the 10 gauge around on Grissom as he waited on the boy to get to his feet. You stay put pendejo. The sheriff led the boy out of the cell and then locked the door behind him. He placed a pair of handcuffs  on him and led him outside, prodding him all the while with the 10 gauge. The street was already crowded with miners and drovers, dogs and livestock. The boy noticed a wagon load of lumber and several men building a gallows in an empty lot across from the jail. The sound of hammers and hand saws contributed to the usual morning din of a mining camp waking up. As The boy shuffled across the street toward the saloon, several miners loitered outside, waiting on the mine wagon. Some were still drunk from the night before, having never gone to bed, their eyes looking like bloodshot piss holes. The group quieted as the boy approached, some of them quickly looking down while others stared intently as the mexican prodded the boy forward through the doors and up the stairs to the Colonel. Timmons stood as the boy came to the top of the stairs. I got him from here Jose. The sheriff grunted and handed Timmons the handcuff keys and retreated back downstairs to the bar and his waiting bottle. Timmons grabbed the boy by the shirt, knocked on the Colonels door and opened it. The Colonel was busy shaving in a gleaming white porcelain basin. As Timmons seated the boy, the Colonel watched in the mirror. Leave the key with me Timmons. Timmons walked over and placed the key on the desk. The boy watched the Colonel intently. As Timmons left the room, the boy’s gaze shifted to the gun cabinet. Rifles with ammunition. No lock with a glass front door. How Silly the boy thought. The boy then noticed the Colt pistol laying on the desk, The same pistol that had killed Parsons and most likely the same pistol that had been used to kill his father and uncle too. You are thinking If I could only get to those guns, I could kill that son of a bitch, aren’t you boy? I don’t blame you. Hell, I would be thinking the same thing. The Colonel paused talking as he carefully trimmed below his lip with the straight razor, the sound of the metal scraping against the coarse whiskers the only sound in the room while outside the large window on the street several teamsters could be heard loading a freight wagon.

The boys gaze stayed on the Colonel, the hatred pouring out of him in fluid waves of heat. He imagined breaking free of the chains and taking the straight razor from him and in a flash opening up his throat. The painting of the Nile receiving a fresh splash of crimson as the Colonel frantically died on the floor like the diseased pig that he was. The sound of splashing water brought the boy back to reality and present company. The Colonel washed his face and as he dried off with a towel walked over to the window to gaze at the already bustling town below. This place was a wide spot in the road when I got here. Nothing but a couple of run-down shacks and some whores. Now look at it! Because of me hundreds of men have jobs. Their families have food, clothing, housing; a future. The Colonel shifted his hard  gaze to the boy. I warned you and your family to stop stealing from me and move on, but they didn’t listen. So I cleared them out and made room for progress! The boys face grew red. His heartbeat racing like a rabbit. You gave us no choice! For years my family hunted these lands and then you come along and in a day say it is all yours! You murdered my pregnant mother and put my unborn sister on a roasting spit you sorry sumbitch! The Colonels face changed expression as the boy’s comment seemed to truly shock him. Anger was replaced with melancholy. I had no ideal they did such a barbarous, heartless thing! Those bastards! The boy sensed the Colonel was sincere in his sentiment, the boy’s anger started to simmer down, his muscles relaxed, his heartbeat slowed. The Colonel came closer as if to shake hands with the boy and offer an apology, and then suddenly in a blur, the Colonel delivered a powerful right hook into the boys jaw, knocking him backwards out of his chair and sending two of his teeth flying out of his mouth in a bloody mixture of spittle. You goddamn savage! I am gonna put you all on roasting spits before it is all over with! The boy lay dazed on the floor, the taste of blood and copper in his mouth, the Colonel’s words a distant echo as if he was underwater. Damn your soul to hell you worthless son of a whore!! The Colonel kicked the boy in the ribs, knocking the air out of him in a whoosh. The boy groaned and tried to roll away like a wounded animal, searching for a reprieve from the pain. Before the Colonel could kick him again suddenly Timmons bust through the door,  an expression of fear and excitement all across his face at once. Colonel we got visitors! Timmons was so excited he stumbled over his words like a retarded child. A half-dozen armed men led by a Mexican bandit! The Colonel regained his composure and walked over to the window to inspect the street. Well, the Lord is certainly being gracious to me today! Instead of hanging two pieces of thieving shit, I get to hang the whole damn gang! That’s Diaz and six of his cut-throats from Wolf Mountain. Looks like they came looking for this boy and Grissom. Probably thought you two assholes stole the weapons and ammunition he thinks I gave you. The Colonel laughed heartily, his face turning red as he slapped his desk in exclamation. No honor among thieves aye their boy? Timmons round-up the boys, I will try to get all these bastards in the saloon so we can take them all in one go! Timmons nodded his head and spun around and headed out the door. You just lay there and bleed you little bastard, I will be back to finish you off right and proper directly. The Colonel eyed the boy on the ground as he stuck the Colt in his waistband and retrieved a Winchester shotgun from the gun cabinet, loading up the tube and sticking extra double aught shells in his pockets.

 The saloon and the streets were already cleared by the time the Colonel walked outside with Timmons and four other men. Diaz and Spoon were waiting patiently still on their horses. Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise! The Colonels grinned as he came out of the saloon doors, the Colt stuck down the front of his trousers and the Winchester Scattergun in his right hand.. Timmons stayed at the Colonels side as the four other men fanned out evenly to the left and right, each of them armed with a rifle. Diaz seemed to ignore the Colonel and the men. His gaze focused on an upright pine coffin sitting on the saloon’s porch. In it Parsons decomposing body stared back, half of his head missing, one eye staring lazily upwards at the sky as his black matted hair lay plastered against his pallid skin caked with blood. Around his neck they had hung a wooden sign with the words “Murderer and Horse Thief” in big white letters. Seeing Diaz state of fury, Spoon spoke up. We hear you got two of our people Colonel, we came to get em’ back. The Colonel laughed as he brought the Scattergun around to bare on the two riders before him. Reacting, Spoon drew the Schofield revolver that lay in his saddle holster and before he could cock the hammer the Colonel fired, the big shotgun roaring to life like a sleeping dragon, the buckshot tearing horse and rider apart like paper being ripped asunder by a strong breeze. Spoon was knocked clean out of his saddle, landing three feet behind where his horse had formerly stood, his chest opened like a bloody cavern, pieces of rib bone and marrow littered the dusty street. Spoon’s poor horse lay terribly wounded after the affair. It was crying in pain and trying to get his front feet under him to no effect when the Colonel pulled his pistol and mercifully shot the gelding through the head. Diaz’s horse had of course bucked wildly when this occurred, throwing him clean off and landing the mexican in the street on his ass. As Diaz got his feet, at least a dozen guns pulled down on him, including the Colonel, who had ejected his spent shell in the Pump Winchester and racked a fresh one. Don’t twitch a fuckin’ finger you worthless piece of shit or you will end up exactly like your friend over there. The Colonel’s voice was angry, but dead calm and focused. Timmons, go on over there and get his gun belt and make sure the sumabitch ain’t got no hideout guns or knives, you know how fuckin’ mexicans are. Timmons casually walked over, holstering his gun and patting Diaz down. After finding a small knife in his boot, Timmons unbuckled his gun belt and threw it all on the saloon porch. Diaz stood there smiling. You want my boots too Colonel? They are nice ones, belonged to one of your cowboys I believe. The Colonel’s brow furrowed at that jibe. I am gonna hang you Diaz. You and your buddy Grissom down there in my jail are gonna hang together and twist in the wind momentarily. Diaz laughed heartily. Go ahead and laugh you toothless sumabitch. In about 10 minutes you are gonna be laughing with the devil in hell. The Colonel motioned for the surrounding men to take him and tie his hands and feet. As the men were taking the rope to tie him suddenly one of the men’s head exploded like a ripe cantaloupe hitting rock, the rifle shot ringing out from above them. The boy had managed to free himself from his handcuffs and had now took up a firing position in the Colonel office with a Krag Rifle. At this Diaz ran and dove into a small alleyway beside the saloon. Suddenly it sounded as if the whole town exploded in gunfire at once. Some men fired wildly at Diaz while others fired at the office windows above. About this time, more shots rang out from down the street at the jail. The Colonel and his men had not accounted for all of Diaz’s men before the shooting started. Half a dozen of them had taken up positions near the jail and had bushwhacked the drunk sheriff and freed Grissom, now Grissom along with six mexican bandits including the black creole Tick, all armed with Repeaters and bolt-action rifles, were moving on the saloon. The Colonel seeing this yelled for Timmons and retreated back into the saloon. You go kill Diaz, he’s out back there somewhere unarmed! The Colonel yelled at Timmons. I’ll go kill this damn Apache kid and then we can take care of Grissom and the rest of those damn cut throats! Timmons nodded and headed for the back door of the saloon, as he was about to the back door, suddenly it busted open and Diaz came through blasting with a revolver. The first shot caught Timmons in the neck, and the second caught him above the right eye, sending his brain pan all over the brand new pianola the Colonel had just had delivered from St. Louis. Fucking Bastard! The Colonel screamed in fear as much as anger. He let loose with the shotgun on Diaz from about 10 feet away, the top half of Diaz virtually disappeared in a spray of pink mist and gore, with the bottom half of his body intact and neatly folded up on the floor.

Winded, the Colonel took a deep breath, reloaded and began to climb the stairs to finish the kid. Suddenly two of his men busted through the saloon doors, one of them gut shot and the other shot in the arm. Where the hell are the rest of the men! The Colonel yelled. Dead! One of the men blurted out as he made his way to the window with his revolver and began firing. God damn all you! The Colonel yelled as he charged upstairs. As he was about to kick down the door suddenly several shots rang out through the cedar door, splinters flying wildly into his face. The first shot hit the Colonel low in the gut and the second hit him in the right arm, spinning him to the floor. Sumabitch! The Colonel cried out. He had dropped the shotgun so he tried to pull his Colt in his waistband, but his arm would not work. Downstairs shots rang out as the Mexicans closed in on the two defenders in the saloon. The Colonel watched as Grissom and a black man busted through the saloon doors and cut his men down at close range with revolvers. About that time the Colonel’s office door swung open and the Indian boy walked out, holding a Krag Rifle. The boys eyes burned like two pieces of hot ember. The Colonel lay there, blood pooling on the floor from his wounds. Grissom, Tick and three of the Mexicans had found the good whiskey and poured themselves a drink as they watched the show unfold upstairs. Go Ahead Boy, Here I am! Get your Revenge! The Colonel yelled wildly, spit and blood flying from his mouth. The Boy calmly walked up to the Colonel, dropped the rifle and reached down and picked up the Colonel’s Colt. A look of disgust filled the Colonel’s face as he watched him. You worthless Savage! The Colonel yelled. I Fuckin’ Despi— before he could finish his sentence the boy fired three shots into the Colonel’s head, the shots in rapid succession, sending brain and gore flying all over, The boy looked at the body a while before finally spitting on him. The boy then calmly stuck the Colt in his waistband and made his way downstairs and out the saloon doors. Directly Grissom came out. The boys cleaned out the freight office Grissom said looking at the boy. The boy never blinked, just kept looking ahead like into a dream only he could see, We got around $1,000 far as I can tell in cash money plus rifles, ammunition and fresh horses and mules. Grissom continued looking at the boy, hoping for a response. Directly, the boy reached into his shirt and pulled out a two small sacks. You can add this to the booty too, found it under the floorboards in his office. Grissom took the sack from the boy and looked inside. Grissom’s eyes widened as he poured out Chunks of pure silver, some of the rocks as large as a baby’s fist. We are heading to Texas if you want to come along, Grissom asked, his eyes still wide from the silver. The boy  walked out into the street and looked up into the blue sky, squinting at the bright sun. There in the sky, the boy saw a huge river, a river as large and swift as the Colorado. Immediately the boy felt a familiarity about this place and then he realized it was the same river from his dream the other night. As he watched the water roar past he quickly realized he was not alone, his entire family was there, including a small girl he had never met before. Who is this? the boy asked his father, pointing to the small girl by his mother’s side. His father smiled and placed his hand on the child’s head. This is your sister, Princesa Margarete. The boy’s heart swelled and a happiness he had not felt in such a long time washed over him like a summer rainstorm. Before the boy could say anymore, his family turned and walked away into a sweet, glowing light that climbed upwards into the sky. As the boy dried the tears from his face, he realized something that made his heart glow even more; This time him and his family were not separated by the river, they were all together! The boy laughed to himself and shook his head, he had never felt so happy, alive and content as he did this day.

The Mexicans soon came out of the saloon, carrying with them whatever was not nailed down: crates of whiskey bottles, blankets, pictures, lamps and rifles. By now, some of the miners and teamsters were making their way back into town from their hiding places in the mines and hills, all of them treading carefully, surveying the dead in the street. You coming along kid? Grissom asked as he began walking toward the horses with the Mexicans. The boy gave Grissom a long look, tears still filling his eyes from the vision. Wiping the tears away, the boy smiled and said aloud Let’s Go to Texas.

The End

War Documentaries Worth A Damn: The Battle Of The Chosin Resovoir

New Film Offers Gunt’s Eye View Of Unrelenting Combat During Korean War

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This is the first NEW Documentary I have seen in quite some time on the Korean War.

Just like with WW2, the veterans of this terrible conflict are dying off quickly and we need to get their stories recorded for posterity and future generations.

Be sure and set your DVR Tonight, the Documentary appears on PBS (Channel 65 on Direct TV) on the program “American Experience” at 8pm CST.

Stay Alert, Stay Armed and Stay Dangerous!

Prepping 101: ‘Doomsday’ Marketing


Doomsday Prepper Supply Companies Are the Real Winners of the 2016 Election!

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Ultimately it is always going to be up to the end-user (YOU the CO) to make good, common sense decisions on what to buy and when to buy it and not be influenced by scare tactics or “Doomsday” Marketing.

Never operate out of fear folks, nothing good ever comes of it.

Stay Alert, Stay Armed and Stay Dangerous!

Morning Laugh: Buy A Ring, Get A Gun!


Texas Jeweler Offers “Buy A Ring, Get A Gun” Engagement Promotion

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Only in my great home state of Texas will you find something like this!!

Absolutely Brilliant!

Stay Alert, Stay Armed and Stay Dangerous!