Wip - The Talisman - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Present Day

Part B

Rhea's heart dropped. No wonder Trish had returned home. Her life-long dream had been shattered. She had turned to plan B, whatever that was. Rhea gasped. Plan B, ride off into the sunset never to be heard from again. Could that be Plan B? It didn't seem that farfetched when she considered Grammy and her outlandish stories.

Tap, tap, tap.

Rhea flinched and looked at her window to discover Vance standing there. Rhea put her hand in motion, rolling down the window.

"Morning, Mrs. Larsen." Rhea could still remember changing this boy's diapers twenty years ago but still he used the formal address.

"Morning." Rhea interfused her thoughts and righted her demeanor.

"What brings you by this morning?"

"I'm looking for Trish."

"What? Miss Play by the Rules sneaking around behind your back or something?"

"Or something. She didn't come home last night…"

It didn't take long to discover that Yedi wasn't in his stall or that Trish hadn't returned her saddle and tack.

Vance pulled out his cell phone, astonishing Rhea with not only the number of people he called asking if they'd seen Trish but the clarity of the conversation via the wireless.

"Looks like nobody's seen her since yesterday morning."

"It didn't sound to me like anyone had seen her. Who said they'd seen her?"

"Me." Vance said as though the one syllable solved the puzzle.

"You," Rhea pounced on the clue. "Where? When?"

"Right here yesterday morning. She seemed fine."

"What did she say? Where did she go?"

"Whoa, Mrs. Larsen. She said 'Morning, I'm going riding.' That was it. She didn't say where she was headed or when she planned to be back."

"Which way did she go?"

"Down the road, but that isn't going to help us any. She was on horseback and she knows the valley as good as I do. It wouldn't surprise me none if she turned up in a day or so, telling us she'd followed the Oregon Trail or the Old Stage Coach Trail."

"Did she take supplies?"

"I didn't notice any other than her canteen, but really, I pulled out of here before mid morning to get to that sale in Idaho Falls on time. She coulda come back by and Mom wouldn't have seen her if Trish came to this north gate."

"Young man, you are not helping," Rhea accused.

"What's to help? If Trish wants to vanish up one of these canyons, she's likely to do it and see more deer and elk than hunters do. She's a survivor. You know that. Heck, she taught me about most of those canyons."

"And her father taught her."

"Don't worry about her."

"I can't help it. It's womankind's nature to worry and to top it off; I have a bad feeling about this."

"Why?"

Rhea reached through the open car window, grasped the piece of bad news and handed it to Vance. "This, is why."

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Present Day

Part A

Rhea woke with a start. Why was she sitting up in her chair and in the living room? Trish!

Rhea scrambled to right herself, plucking her reading glasses from their precarious perch at the end of her nose with one hand while fumbling for her romance novel that had slid between the chairs generous cushions. The grandfather clock ticked with its usual disciplined beat. She reached to turn off the lamp on the side table. The first pale glimmer of dawn beckoned at the horizon across the valley. Pushing the footrest closed, she stood and moved carefully through the waning darkness to see the clock's face. Five o'clock. She had fallen asleep waiting for Trish to come home.

This wasn't like Trish. Yesterday had been her birthday but she hadn't seemed overly distraught about it. She'd left the house early to go riding.

Maybe she'd gone with Vance. No one at his home had answered the phone last evening and Rhea had left more than one message. Of course if Vance and his mother were anything like herself, the light on the message recorder could go unnoticed for more than a day.

Where was Trish? Cell phones were wonderful gadgets and maybe after this, she would get one, but service was spotty at best in this valley and thus her decision to keep the landline. It was too early to call. Vinita, Vince's mother worked the late shift and wouldn't be up until after eight. That left her one choice, to go over and try to catch Vance before he got too engaged in training or left to deliver a horse. Why did Trish have to agree to go into business with Vance? He was so young and full of dreams, not to mention being cock-sure of himself.

Rhea mentally shook herself. Trish and Vance and their huge dreams were not the issue this morning. Finding Trish was.

Rhea paused long enough in the kitchen to grab a couple pieces of toast, she'd need it to think straight and if the day demanded more? Well, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it. With her purse strap over her arm, butter slicking her fingers from the toast and keys in the other hand, Rhea hurried through the brisk morning air to her car. The old Pontiac Grand Prix turned over and burst into the gentle roar of power tweaked by local teens. Taking her foot off the brake she let the power roll the heavy car down the drive before coaxing the engine to speed down the dirt road. Oh Trish, where are you?

Ten years ago, Rhea would have thumbed through Trish's notebook, looking for friends and boyfriends whose couches Trish would happily crash on in a case like this. But not today. Trish had come home after weeks of phone calls from Rhea, begging her to reconsider.

Trish had reconsidered all right, right into Vance's dream of horses and training grandeur. What had become of Trish's dream to become a defense attorney? Rhea mulled the possibilities around in her head. Maybe something had happened at the law offices of Mikelson, Hoffman and Bauer. Trish had seemed happy enough until that last phone conversation. Rhea shook her head; she'd not held the power to sway Trish's decisions since high school. Something or someone else must have been the cause for Trish's willing return home.

Deep in thought, Rhea took the corner a bit too fast. The papers on the passenger seat slid. Rhea slapped her hand on them to keep them from falling to the floor. Letting off the accelerator, Rhea pulled safely into the yards of Vance's dream-come-true. As Rhea lifted her hand to put the car into park, the papers slipped to their earlier destination, the floor. It was only then that she took the moment to read. She didn't have to read much to discover the reason for Trish's rash decisions. The letter informed the reader that Trish had not passed her bar exam.

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Part C

Quinn stirred the fire, getting it going again. He figured it was about three in the morning. The horses squealed alerting him to what had woken him in the first place. He didn't usually wake at this hour unless he had good reason. This spring the job for Leavitt had stolen many nights sleep, what with the wolves running the range. The men had opted to work in pairs this year, all but Quinn. He preferred to work alone to protect his secrets, even if it meant less sleep. Leavitt paid well for these occasional short jobs of gathering his livestock from the rough passes of this ridge. Passes no one knew as well as Quinn.

He checked the horses. The stallion pawed at the ground, testing the tether line. Quinn checked the knots and tightened the line. It would be unwise to try to traverse this country without a horse. Though not wide eyed, the stallion seemed ready to bolt at the slightest altercation. Quinn soothed the animal, running an appreciative hand over his sleek coat. The stallion's head was fine, his eyes speaking of intelligence. Could this stud be stolen property? Maybe he was used for breeding as he certainly wasn't a cowpony. This was the type of animal Quinn would happily breed his mares against. Too bad the mare he rode on this trip wasn't in season. If she were, no doubt there would have been a bit more squealing on her part.

Quinn had spent years bartering good breed mares for his training services. Noble was notorious for not recognizing a good animal and even worse at caring for them. Quinn had rescued more than one prime mare from the man.

 Finding all well with the horses, he returned to the campfire. The woman had named herself Trish, not what he would have expected.

He filled the quiet hours of darkness watching her sleep. Her long hair had a hint of red in the firelight. Her features were gentle, her cheekbones high, her nose slightly upturned. He wondered how old she was. The dirt and grime smeared along her cheeks and chin masked her age quite adequately, a comely woman, not overly attractive.

Why would a woman dress like a man? Her clothing choice wasn't the only thing that seemed odd. Her shirt had fancy stitching and a collar like that needing a cravat of sorts, but she had none. And her pants: she looked to be plumb poured into them. Of course though it had been merely a glance, he had noticed the curves of her figure. Zelda had once been slight like Trish, and he'd liked Zelda that way. But time at Pierre's saloon had changed her.

When Quinn had first watched Trish from the cover of a downed tree nearby, she had seemed so small and needy under Old Curly's cruel captivity. Curly had threatened to take a poke at her and her whole bearing changed. Trish had become a she wolf, fighting for her life. A reaction totally opposite of how he knew Zelda would have reacted. Obviously this woman was cut from different cloth.

Trish had proved her capability to use a weapon quite well; he had the broken tooth and a nasty bump on his head to attest to it. He glanced at the dead man. She had finished him as well. A daughter, even one with amnesia wouldn't turn on her father unless… How long had Curly had her trussed up? Had he hit her or threatened to rape her before? If he had, he'd gotten what he deserved. Nah, it didn't make sense. Curly was as old and dirty as years of nothing but trails could make a man. Trish, on the other hand was clean in spite of the dirty smudge on her face and arms.

In Quinn's experience women generally needed taking care of. Trish apparently did too. Of course when she'd been free of her tethers, the tables had turned.

She turned over in her sleep, pulling her blanket up and exposing her feet. He appraised her boots. The heel seemed high and the fringe… Common sense, even that of a lady, deemed such extra trappings unwise. Maybe she was hiding the fancy stitching across the toe of the boot. The woman's clothing didn't make sense.

Trish wasn't like other women he'd known. His mother and sister were both genteel ladies of the South although they'd not been strangers to work. Zelda, though not refined, certainly enjoyed the softer side of life. Honest work, whether in the house or the fields wasn't what Zelda relished. Lucinda, Albert's wife, wasn't a complainer. She dealt with living in the rough cabin for the past year with a loving, even doting affection for Albert. They all needed defending at some point, but not this one.

Trish was different, and spirited -- just like her stallion. He liked a spirited horse. He'd trained many of them. They made the best mounts, even in a cowpony. Spirited animals worked hard and would give a man their last ounce of strength.

The log in the fire dropped, sending sparks into the air. Trish stirred, turning over but didn't wake.

Birds chirped heralding the coming of morning. Steam rose from the heating coffee pot. At last she awoke.

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Part B

His indifferent indication of the campsite revealed his disgust. He glanced at her while evaluating the situation. "Well, we gotta call ya somethin'. Got a name ya like?"

She didn't want to answer too fast. "For some reason I feel partial to Trish."

"Trish. Guess it's a'right. Nice meetin' ya ma'am." He repositioned his hat on his head with a gentleman's nod.

 Trish found his presence so near her disturbing and shifted onto her side, her back to him. She tried to focus on the flames of the fire but her eyes inevitably returned to Curly. She pinched her eyes closed not wanting to remember the dead man on the other side of the fire or those frenzied moments leading up to his death. Fearing the memory more than the stranger, she rolled over and wiggled a bit closer to him, her chin tucked to avert her eyes from meeting his.

"Fire's gonna die down. Ya might be want'n to stay close to it."

"It. Not Curly."

"He's a real danger now," Quinn interjected in a sardonic fashion.

A shudder crawled up her back. How could she admit to him the horror she felt at what she had done? She couldn't verbally admit it to herself. "It's not Curly that bothers me. It's dead bodies in general. That blank death stare gives me the creeps."

He rolled out of his bedroll and circled the fire. On the other side he bent over the body and rolled it further away from the fire, face down. He returned stepping over her.

"Anything else botherin' ya?"

She wanted to say lots of things bothered her, including being near him. Instead she answered, "No, thank you."

He settled into his bedroll and moments later serenaded her with his snoring. How could he do it? How could he be part of a murder, roll the victim over and sleep as if it were all in a day's work? Was he that hard? She stopped. Who had killed Curly? Had Quinn with his knife? Or had she struck the final blow? One of them could be found guilty of murder in a court of law, but the other would be an accessory.

If she should happen to be charged with murder, she would plead self defense. If charged with accessory? She was guilty. The memory of her actions sickened her. She faced the fire. Maybe if she snuggled down just right, the rocks at the fire's edge would block her view of Curly. She watched the flames as the fire crackled but she couldn't ignore the dead man.

She turned over, her feet getting tangled in the bedroll. She sat up, her breathing coming in ragged gasps. She had to deal with this. Her gaze settled on Quinn. She didn't know the man. He had proven himself dangerous… no more so than she herself. The light from the fire flickered across his rugged features turning the dark locks of hair fiery black. Could she trust this man? Did she have a choice? If she must trust herself to someone in this dangerous adventure of hers, she could do worse. She had done worse. She resituated her bedroll closer to him chiding herself for finding him even slightly attractive. Pulling a few rocks out from under her, she turned to him for a smidgeon of human comfort and safety. The wolves howled and after a time she slept.

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Part A

Trish lay on her back with her knees up, ready to spring from her bedroll and scramble away or fight. Old Curly's bedroll surprised her with its functional warmth that also served well as padding under her. She opted to wrap the newest looking blanket around her, a finely woven Indian blanket of deep orangey red with a unique pattern near one end.

She stared at the night sky teaming with its abundance of stars so unlike the night sky of her home in the outskirts of Seattle. There the night sky invariably glowed with the reflection of manmade lights on the overcast sky. Oh sure, there were clear nights, but she'd stopped noticing them about the time she'd mistakenly believed her career kicked into high gear. How could she have really believed the "Old Boys" considered her as anything but a glorified office girl? They had given her the mandatory pay raise every six months with the occasional bonus of a title change. She knew betting took place on everything of public knowledge from a baby's birth date, time and weight to who was shacking up with who. Surely the office had run betting odds for if she, the oldest unofficial intern in the office would pass her exams this time just like they had the time before.

The memories made her want to climb in a hole and disappear. She chuckled mirthlessly. She had done better than that; she had slipped through the fabric of time with a device she no doubt should have used years ago. Why didn't she listen to Grammy? I listened alright. I just didn't believe her.

Had Trish listened with an open mind, she could be experiencing her umpteenth adventure rather than her first and by now she would know better than to fall victim to the likes of Old Curly.

"What's done is done," she sighed barely above a whisper. Realizing she'd verbalized her thoughts, she snapped back to her present situation.

A rather handsome stranger lay to one side of her. On the other side, and just beyond the fire, lay a dead man. She didn't know if she could trust the stranger and yet he hadn't killed her. He had actually, in a roundabout way, helped her kill the man holding her prisoner. She may have gotten away from Old Curly without this strangers help, but when and at what price? She was here alone and it had proven dangerous today. Maybe surviving seven days wasn't as easy as Grammy had made it sound. She needed to trust someone, why not him?

"Do you have a name?" she asked into the darkness.

He didn't answer right away. "Quinn. You?"

What if he asked about more than her name? She couldn't tell him she was from the twenty-first century. He'd never believe her and what if he asked where she was from? She didn't know anyone and she didn't know exactly what the year was. Her not knowing even the most common realities could easily be mistaken for amnesia. That's it!

"I -- I don't know."

"What do you mean, ya don't know? Every man has a name."

She had to think fast. A lie was easier to remember if it echoed the truth. "I just remember Curly fishing me out of the gulley. Nothing else."

He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. "Is that why Curly had you trussed up? Ya ain't lyin' to me?"

"I don't know why he had me tied up. He helped me out. I thanked him. The next thing I knew he'd lassoed me."

"He ain't your pa is he?"

Her stomach wrenched at the thought. "Heavens no. You think he'd wanna take a poke at his own daughter?"

"It'd explain a bit though. Don't 'magine his fatherin' skills'd be much better than his othern'."

"What other?" Was she really having a conversation about a dead man?

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 4 - Part C

Chapter 4

Part C

He grimaced, pulling his head back. "What's with the high fa-lutten words? Ya from back East somewhere's? I ain't heard that kind of gibberish since I was a youngster." He settled back against a rather large, downed tree and relaxed, his knees flexed and his arms draped across his thighs.

A wolf howled in the distance sending a shiver up her spine. How close was it? Would it be safe to travel alone? Through this canyon in the dark? The possibilities raced across her mind. Although she would be considered a city girl in this era, she knew enough to know the answers to her questions. Too close, no, and no. The wolf howled again as if finalizing her decision. A choice she didn't want to make.

"I tell you what. You haul dead Old Curly away from here and I'll share the fire with you," she bargained.

"Tell you what. We leave Old Curly where he is. Put our bedrolls on this side of the fire and let the wolves have him tomorrow while we mosey on down the canyon."

"I'm not sleeping near a dead body." She cringed, had she really killed a man? No, she could never even hurt a man… but she had this time.

He almost smiled "Put 'im out in the cold and invite the wolves to dinner, eh? Or maybe you plan to fight the pack off yourself. Either way, the wolves'll have dinner. I'm thinkin' I'll stay right here, near the fire and put the vittles out for 'em when we leave at daybreak."

She stared at him, relaxing her grip on the rifle. "Yeah, but can I trust you?"

In one fluid motion he sprung to his feet, grabbed his knife and held it to her throat. Trish froze. He held her against him, his blade centimeters from her neck for several minutes before releasing her. He stepped away into the darkness. Her knees nearly buckled, and her whole body trembled.

"If I was gonna help Old Curly or hurt ya, ya couldn't a stopped me. Settle your roll by the fire an' I'll check the horses. Just don't shoot me when I come back."

She stared after him as he disappeared into the darkness.

...next week...Chapter 5

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 4 - part B

Chapter 4

Part B

Trish turned to regard the beans scattered in the dirt. The plate had landed right side up with a few beans still stuck to it. Nausea engulfed her. For the first time all day she was grateful that her stomach was empty. The need to heave gave way to rumblings before shifting to shallow pangs.

She turned her attention on the newcomer. His knife had cut her free but it had also killed. She could see the shallow rise and fall of his muscled chest. She watched the firelight skip on his features. How long would he lay unconscious?

She carefully measured the knife to the sheath at his waist; an exact match. Had he turned and thrown the knife to protect her? She sat back and closed her eyes, trying to remember. It had happened so fast. One moment he was standing there, making those weird faces at her. Then he spun. She slammed the branch as hard as she could at his head, twice. Wait.

She stepped over him, retrieving his hat and setting it on his head. Maybe there had been a reason for the look he gave her and for the… She swallowed. What if he had been trying to communicate with her? Telling her something?

Trish took her hat off and did the best she could to comb her hair with her fingers. She would watch him and wait. His knife balanced on her knees. The fire burned low. She set the knife on a rock and added a log to the fire.

"Come on, hero. If you are a hero, wake up. I couldn't have hit you that hard." She shivered knowing she'd hit Old Curly hard enough. She looked around wondering where Old Curly left his bedroll. Locating it with his mule's pack, she stood to retrieve it. "Dang, I forgot how cold the canyons get at night. Curly, you dog, you better not have fleas or --"

"You always talk to dead men?"

Trish jumped and spun. She stared at him. When did he wake up?

"How do you know he's dead?"

The man chuckled, winced in pain and sat up. "You got a wicked swing." He touched his head and grimaced.

Curly's rifle lay with the rest of the gear still with the pack. Trish grabbed it, pointing it at the newcomer. He glanced at her but continued to check his head for blood. "You should at least trust me now. I could have killed you or at least let Old Curly have his way with you. Put the rifle away before you kill somethin'."

"Trust you? Why should I? How do I know you were trying to help me, and not just get Curly out of the picture?"

"Are you slow? Is that why he had you all trussed up like a steer?"

Trish kept the gun pointed his direction. She had no idea whether or not it was loaded. She reached for the bedroll, rolling it up her leg to get it under her arm. "I'm not slow, and you haven't answered my question."

"The old goat's dead or you wouldn't be free." He glanced at the body before his gaze focused on his knife several feet away. "Ya gonna let me have my knife back?"

She moved to the knife, planting her foot on it.

"Hm--" He pressed his fingers to his lips, checking for blood. She watched him roll his tongue around his teeth. "Busted one of my teeth, too."

She smiled; she'd done better than expected. "Looks like you won't be taking advantage of a shanghaied woman. I ought to press charges against you for being an accessory."

...to be continued

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 4 - Part A

Chapter 4

Part A

Adrenaline pumped through Trish's veins. Her heart pounded, threatening to jump out of her chest and yet she stood firm. No man would take her virtue without a fight.

She turned her attack on Old Curly. He was on his knees, his eyes stunned, his right arm in the air as if to protect himself from her blows. Just think of his head as a tennis ball. She shuffled her feet on the uneven ground, took her stance and swung a beautifully executed backhand. Curly fell back. A strange ker-thunk whispered in the darkness. Both men lay motionless.

Trish stood still, surprised at her easy victory. Smoke from the campfire drifted toward her. The branch slipped from her fingers. Why had the man who ate her supper turned at the last minute? It was as if he'd wanted her to hit him. It took her a minute to absorb what she'd done. She could see by the campfire's dancing light that he was still breathing. She shuddered, willing the gruesome scene to depart. Remembering her need to escape, she knelt by the newcomer hoping to find a knife to cut the rope off her wrists. She did her best to search him, her hands roaming across solid muscle, finding the empty sheath. Why would he have a sheath and no knife? She sat back on her heels and looked at him.

She'd sent his pale cowboy hat flying when she hit him and now she couldn't reach it to return it. A glimmer of guilt for robbing him of his cowboy appeal, tickled her thoughts. No, he doesn't deserve my sympathy. He was going to help Curly rape me. Still, she couldn't keep herself from marveling at his wavy locks of dark brown hair and felt jealous as his eyelashes appeared thick and long against tanned cheeks. His nose came to a gentle point punctuating defining cheekbones and a strong jaw. He looked totally at ease with his mouth pleasantly relaxed. She resisted the impulse to twist her head and get closer. Where was his knife?

The fire crackled and spit as a log shifted, making her jump. She stood, trying to evaluate Old Curly from a distance. He lay in an awkward position with his legs tucked under him, his eyes open. Her gut twisted, bile rising in her throat. Was he dead? She dared to get closer and found herself jerked to a halt. The stranger lay on the rope tethering her. Tugging at it, she pulled the rope free and stepped closer to Curly. The shaft of a knife stuck out of his chest, a pool of blood on his clothes and another dark puddle growing on the ground under his head. He had to be dead. She reached for the knife and pulled. It stuck firm. She turned away, her hands trembling.

Moments later shuddering angst encompassed her whole frame. What had she done? She mentally shook herself knowing she wasn't out of this mess yet and forced herself to do what she must.

She turned back to the dead man, placing her foot on his chest. "I'm not --" She grasped the knife and gave it a firm tug. "Going --" Another tug. "To die out here with the likes of you."

The knife came free. She staggered back, almost falling into the fire. She returned to his body and wiped the knife on his coat. Her strength, driven by shear willpower lagged as she stumbled to sit on the decaying log Curly had forced her to drag to the fireside. She sat with her back to his dead stare. Propping the knife between her feet, she worked at the cord securing her wrists. A sharp zing at her wrist warned her to work more carefully. At last she was free. Trish examined her cut wrist in the flickering fire light. Where was that canteen?

 Locating it behind the rock Old Curly had used to anchor the her tether, she poured water on her cut. The cloth she'd used as a hot pad would have to do for a wrap. Piercing the cloth with the knife, she gave the fabric a savage yank to tear it. Using her teeth as well as her fingers from her injured limb, she managed to tie a rough bandage on her wrist. Her stomach grumbled.

…to be continued

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 3

OH MY GOSH!! So sorry, this should have been the first post this week and I'm just catching it. You can go to the Talisman series tab and read this chapter in order. Again, I am soooo sorry for the mix-up.
The Talisman

Book1

Chapter 3

Part A

The setting sun signaled the need to make camp, yet Quinn pushed on. There would be time to rest once he reached home. He smiled thinking of Zelda and her warm welcome. Of course she would prefer he get the trail dust off and a shave before he visited her, but her solicitous attentions warmed his thoughts. Yes, she had proven herself well worth the gamble. She was no innocent, but he'd known that from the beginning.

He caught a glimpse of flickering fire light as he rounded the pass. Strange. Settlers didn't know about this pass. From the side these folks must have come, it looked like a box canyon. He knew it was passable on horseback but was careful not to travel this pass from the other side so as to not leave a trail. So far the rustlers had not found this shortcut between the Big Lost and Little Lost valleys. He intended to keep it that way. This pass afforded him the luxury of getting home a whole day early. Others in the valley communities had voiced their wonder about how he could make a living with playing cards, riding an occasional round-up and still get his homestead going. He had his secrets and this one he would keep to himself, not even sharing it with Albert, his brother.

Quinn reined his horse toward the game trail on the south once he cleared the narrow pass. Usually he kept to the stream to cover his tracks. Tonight it was more important to learn who was in this canyon. A canyon most believed had only one way out.

He tied his horse a good distance from the campfire and crept closer on foot, careful to remain out of sight. Crouched behind a fallen log, he watched the old timer, his long coat shielding Quinn's view of the fire. At last the man moved around the fire revealing another more slender figure bending over the fire. He watched long enough to recognize something wasn't right. When the figure stood, he kept his arms tight to his body, his hands together. He didn't even pull the long hair off his face.

The figure had no coat and carried the pot from the fire much too close to his body, pouring the steaming liquid from an awkward angle. The form jumped, a feminine squeal of pain filling the air. The old timer swiped a heavy backhand at the slender form.

"Stupid wench!"

Quinn felt the bile of outrage rise in his throat, an old battle reawakened in his gut. Men had died at the hands of outraged youth over the shameful treatment of his kith and kin. To his way of thinking no female, young or old, educated or not, deserved abuse at a man's hand. There were some things a man just should not do. He and his brother had ended a particular abusive situation with their own retribution. They had fled from the warped Tennessee lawman and kept on the move for years with only their horses under them. Hard work kept them fed and card games kept them on the move… until Denver. One night and one card game had changed it all but not the past. The past held bitter secrets, molding the man he'd become. His mother and sister's screams of that night melted to whimpers, whimpers that always brought the same reaction to the surface, his grinding teeth and insatiable need for vengeance. A need from his past that dictated he not allow an old timer to strike a woman.

Quinn worked his way back to his horse, remounted and skirted the camp to approach from the west. He rode in, his back straight, his shoulders broad. He would not run from this fight, if it came to that.

...to be continued.

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 3

The Talisman

Book 1

Chapter 3

Part C

"Thinking of takin' 'er off my hands, are ya?" Curly shook his head. "She's a heap of trouble but ya ain't takin 'er 'fore I get my poke."

"Tough time getting that poke?" Quinn couldn't help but feel relief knowing the woman had held Curly off until now.

"Ain't been the time."

"So what's stopping you?" Quinn measured the man across the campfire from him, disgust growing with every passing minute.

"Nothun now. My belly's full. I ain't a greedy feller. Ya can 'ave a go, jus' as well. Then we know what stakes we're playin' fer."

Quinn noticed the evil glint of anticipation in Curly's eyes. He looked around to see the woman grasping a stout branch in her hands, obviously planning to stand her ground. Instinct told him that she very well could.

"No way. Over my dead body. You want a go? I'll take your manhood first," she hissed.

"Wretch!"

Quinn stood facing her, the plate of beans forgotten. If he could divert any hostility he had to come between the woman and Old Curly. He sidestepped, placing one foot firmly on the rope that tethered her. He spread his hands, inviting her to trust him as he would a skittish horse. He tried to reassure her, mouthing the words, "It's okay. I won't hurt you."

He sensed rather than saw Curly skirt the fire. "Ya go fer 'er hands. I'll hog tie 'er."

Quinn's hand recoiled at the same time he spun. His knife flashed once before sinking into Old Curly's shoulder. "N--" The stout branch caught Quinn off guard. The second swipe hit him and all went black.

...Next week -- Chapter 4

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 3

The Talisman

Book1

Chapter 3

Part B

"Hello at the fire." Quinn called out.

"Who goes there?" came the guarded greeting from the camp.

"Are ya willing to share your fire? I come in friendly," Quinn responded, checking the knife at his belt.

"That's two in one day. Come on in."

Quinn rode closer to the camp wondering at the comment, dismounting at the firelight's ring. "Smells right inviting." He nodded at the woman and the plate of beans in her hand.

"When she ain't burnin' it or dumpin' it on ya." The old timer turned his attention to the woman. "Get the man the rest of 'em vittles."

Quinn watched her. She glanced longingly at the beans and then handed him the plate. He noticed a look of angry annoyance replace that of hunger on her features as he took the plate he observed that her hands were tethered. A length of rope kept her within the ring of firelight.

"Have a sit. Move woman or ya'll get no blanket tonight."

The woman eyed her captor, an inkling of hunger mixing with the vengeful glare. She moved away from him as far as her tether would allow.

Quinn nodded his thanks and hesitantly took her seat on a comfortable rock. He spooned a healthy bite into his mouth. They tasted awful. What had she done to them? The old timer took his place on a ratty stool and resumed his meal, seemingly unaware of the offensive taste.

"Betcha are wondrun' 'bout this." The old man traced the tether in the air with his spoon.

Quinn nodded in a nonchalant manner taking a smaller bite of beans.

"Ungrateful wretch. Saved 'er life, I did. An' this 'eres the result."

"She volunteered to be your slave, did she?" Quinn knew better, but wanted to hear the old timer's version of the story. Nothing made it right to tether a woman like this, especially one that seemed rather unhappy about it. If she were a cattle rustler, it might be different. The old timer definitely wasn't a cattleman.

"Jus' opposite. Old Curly saves her life an' she weren't even appreciable. Ya ever heard of that?"

"I said 'thanks'," the woman snapped.

Curly yanked hard on the rope causing her to fall. Quinn considered the rope, following it with his eyes to find it anchored to a large rock near Curly.

Anger boiled in Quinn's throat. You couldn't force someone to be thankful and if anything Curly had heaped the wrath of the woman on himself. He managed to hide his feelings. Could Curly be reasoned with? Was Curly the type of man to seek revenge if Quinn stepped in? Would he have to outright kill Curly to set the woman free? Quinn considered the woman in the firelight. She was slender, the manly clothing doing nothing to hide her feminine curves even if she looked rather dirty and unkempt. He harbored little doubt about Curly's warped motive.

"Women," Quinn drawled. "Seems they're more trouble than they're worth. Are you a gambling man, Curly?"

...to be continued.

Revised ending to Chapter 2

Thanks to Teresa Anderson's comment on Friday, I've decided to change things just a bit at the end of Chapter 2. Thank you Teresa! Your type of comment is what I'm hoping for to make the whole so much better for all those that read it.

Note to Teresa: Don't forget to contact me so that you can get your prize!

Ah, gee thanks, you old buzzard. His leer turned uglier, stripping her with his cold blue eyes. Her skin crawled. He rubbed his rough beard.

"Been dreamin' of a warm bed. Even been prayin' fer one. Guess the good Lord answers prayers. Whatda ya say? Come with me and 'ave the nice things?"

"Never." Trish struggled against the rough bands about her arms and chest, trying to break free. It was a mistake. He pulled the rope tighter, cutting into her skin.

"I done fought meaner heifers than you, girl."

He tramped toward her, closing the distance between them until he was so close she smelled the layers of dirt and sweat. She threw her knee at his groin, intending to drive him to his knees long enough to escape. Instead she found her knee caught in layers of filthy cloth sending a more putrid whiff of his stench to her senses. He chuckled, his stale breath of decayed teeth and food engulfing her, turning her stomach. Her gag reflex forced its way to the surface and she held her breath, swallowing the bile down. He dragged his filthy hand across her face, pinching her mouth between his fingers.

His eyes tightened on her. "Ya come along nice an' sweet like, an' I won't 'ave to get mean. Maybe ya like the feel of spurs to yar skin. I gave up cowboy'n in favor of huntin' for gold. But don't think Old Curly's lost his touch. I's can still rodeo with the best of 'em. Ya give me trouble an' I just might think of goin' back." He continued making his vile plans while he tied her hands. "That 'orse of yourn don't 'ave much for hind quarters on 'em, but Old Curly could do some right sharp 'orse tradin' an' get me one that do."

She tuned his sordid verbiage out for the moment. She had to watch for the chance to escape.

When he indicated she mount Yedi her hopes soared. Yedi would respond to her leg cues. She didn't have the chance to settle herself before Old Curly climbed up behind her, wrapping his filthy arms around her and hissing his lurid plans in her ear. Her stomach churned at his debasing comments and sickening odors.

This was not the kind of adventure she'd hoped for.

WIP The Talisman - Chapter 2

The Talisman

Book1

Chapter 2

Part C

"Thanks, but I don't think we're headed the same direction." She turned to get Yedi and ride away. The rope settled over her and yanked tight at her chest. She stopped. He'd offered to help but now it appeared he had other intentions. A nagging sense of dismay eked at her. What could she do now? She needed to think.

"Missy, these parts ain't safe for the likes of you." The rope tightened, forcing her to stumble in his direction. "You need a feller to protect you an' I be thinkin' that feller should be me. Why not? I saved ya from a nasty death of starvation 'til you be too tired to fight off the varmints. As I see it, you owe me."

Had he never heard of chivalry? Was such nonexistent here?

"As I see it, you've done your good turn for the day."

"Ya come along with me an' I'll let ya keep yer 'orse."

Was he actually ignoring her? Did he really intend for her to be able to keep her horse? Or did he plan a subterfuge of some kind? She tried a different tactic. "Horse stealing is a hanging offense you know."

"Ya cook my meals and I'll feed you. I be thinkin' I might even share my blanket with you to keep ya warm."

Ah, gee thanks, you old buzzard. His leer turned uglier, stripping her with his cold blue eyes. Her skin crawled. He rubbed his rough beard.

"Been dreamin' of a warm bed. Even been prayin' fer one. Guess the good Lord answers prayers. Whatda ya say? Come with me and 'ave the nice things?"

"Never." Trish struggled against the rough bands about her arms and chest, trying to break free. It was a mistake. He pulled the rope tighter, cutting into her skin.

"I done fought meaner heifers than you, girl."

He tramped toward her, closing the distance between them until he was so close she smelled the layers of dirt and sweat. She threw her knee at his groin, intending to drive him to his knees long enough to escape. Instead she found her knee caught in layers of filthy cloth sending a more putrid whiff of his stench to her senses. He chuckled, his stale breath of decayed teeth and food engulfing her, turning her stomach. He dragged his filthy hand across her face, pinching her mouth between his fingers.

His eyes tightened on her. "Ya come along nice an' sweet like, an' I won't 'ave to get mean. Maybe ya like the feel of spurs to yar skin. I gave up cowboy'n in favor of huntin' for gold. But don't think Old Curly's lost his touch. I's can still rodeo with the best of 'em. Ya give me trouble an' I just might think of goin' back." He continued making his vile plans while he tied her hands. "That 'orse of yourn don't 'ave much for hind quarters on 'em, but Old Curly could do some right sharp 'orse tradin' an' get me one that do."

She tuned his sordid verbiage out for the moment. She had to watch for the chance to escape.

When he indicated she mount Yedi her hopes soared. Yedi would respond to her leg cues. She didn't have the chance to settle herself before Old Curly climbed up behind her, wrapping his filthy arms around her and hissing his lurid plans in her ear. Her stomach churned at his debasing comments and sickening odors.

This was not the kind of adventure she'd hoped for.

…Next week…Chapter 3

WIP The Talisman - Chapter 2

The Talisman

Book 1

Chapter 2

Part B

She only had to survive seven days without food and water, but what if the sunlight never reached the bottom of the gulley? Without sunlight, the talisman wouldn't dance; and if it didn't dance, it wouldn't transport her back to her own time. What about a flash flood? That would make her situation decay a lot faster. Her stomach churned with dread, but she couldn't afford to be sick. She needed this morning's breakfast to carry her for as long as possible.

"Well I'll be." A masculine voice tickled her ears, making her jump. She struggled to keep her feet under her. "I thought I was hearing things, but sure enough … You in need of help, mister?"

Trish looked up, the man's form shielded by the edge of the gulley. She could only see his head as he swept off his hat.

"Of course I need help." She snapped before reminding herself that she wasn't in the twenty-first century but the late 1800's and shifted her attitude to more of a country hick, hoping to sound like she fit in. She couldn't afford for this man to leave her. "Can you get me outta here?"

"Ya think if I throw you a rope, you can climb out?"

"I--" Trish stopped. Could she with a sore arm? She'd never been overly strong in her upper body. "I think I can."

She didn't need to worry about making a false claim to her abilities. He'd disappeared from her view. Moments later, something hit her hat. She brushed at it and caught a rope in her hand.

"Yourn 'orse don't seem too friendly so I hope ol' Clementine can pull ya out. Now you start a walkin' that-a-way." He turned his back to her. Was he pointing? She wasn't sure. She'd just follow the rope. "An' we'll 'ave ya outta there right quick."

The rope dragged on the gulley wall, knocking mud, loose dirt and rocks on her until it became taut at an angle to her right. She grasped the rope and started to climb. She paused when she had enough to wrap around her backside to climb more like the rock climbers. The added leverage took the strain off her arms, enabling her to climb steadily up out of the slippery gulley. Her feet reached drier ground making it easier to keep her footing but the foot and hand holds she had worked so diligently to make remained out of reach. The rescuer had not decided on the same trail as she had, forcing her to break new ground as she climbed. She didn't care; at least she was getting out of the gulley.

Reaching level ground, she kept hold of the rope for several steps. It would do no good to slip back into the gulley. She let go of the rope and bent over, catching her breath. "Thank you."

"Mister, if I was you, I'd steer clear of that there gulley." He approached her, winding the rope around his hand and elbow as he came. He stopped, finishing the task. Trish stood. "Hey, you ain't a feller. What's a woman doing in these parts alone?"

"I--" Trish stared at the dirty old codger that had rescued her. Layers of dirt obscured his features. He must have taken a sharp knife to his straggly beard and hair. She grimaced realizing his hat was nothing more than a dead raccoon with its eyes rotted out. How should she answer his question? What was she doing? Vacationing? She clamped her mouth shut, not wanting to say the wrong thing.

Leering, he leaned toward her. "You runnin' away from someone girlie? I'll take ya with me an' you'll be safe."

…to be continued.

WIP The Talisman - Chapter 2

The Talisman

Book 1

Chapter 2

Part A

Trish reined Yedi back to the gulley. If the valley had changed, odds were so had the gulley. It wouldn't wash out at the same place. She either had to climb down where she could see the hat or hope to find a better way. She dismounted, daring to get closer to the edge on foot than on horseback.

She easily located her hat again. She would most definitely need it to keep the sun off, and what if the weather turned nasty? It could be said that Idaho's weather was the most unpredictable in the world, or at least the states. Besides, that hat was given to her by Grammy. Now she needed to find a way to get to it. She scanned the gulley, trying to determine the best route. She shook her head, there would be no easy way down and the way out would most likely prove even more difficult.

Vance would tease her about having to chase her hat. Cousins, especially Trish's younger cousins, like Vance, could be a pain in her backside. Setting her teeth against formidable odds, she started down the steep wall of the gulley. Whenever possible, she kicked at the soil in an effort to leave foot holds for climbing out again. Things went well until the walls narrowed and the ground grew muddy. One wrong step could mean a broken leg or worse. With nothing to grasp hold of, nothing to break her fall, she lost her footing and slipped, her momentum no longer under control. She tumbled and bounced from one wall to the other.

She screamed. Her shoulder smashed against a jutting rock sending her into an awkward somersault. Her body came to an abrupt stop, knocking the wind out of her.

She carefully rolled one shoulder and then the other, fearing something might be broken. She seemed fine so far. Her hat lay three feet away. She reached for it. A sharp, stabbing pain warned her to drop her arm.

You've got to be kidding! No hat is worth this.

"Okay, right arm hurts," she said aloud. "Stand?"

Putting her weight under her was far more difficult than she expected. The soil was more mud than solid. She stood. Slipped. She tried again only to find her feet pinched into the narrow V where the mud sucked at her boots.

"At least I'm closer to my hat."

She snatched it with her left hand and stuffed it firmly on her head. "Now, one, two, three. Go." Her scrambling slips and slides netted an inglorious turnaround. She looked up at the edge of the gulley in disgust. It proved more narrow and deep than she had thought. She sagged against the wall, letting the cool mud stick to her lime green shirt. She took a deep breath and with renewed determination scrambled in the direction from which she had come. She clenched the fingers of her right hand. Her arm didn't appear bruised but it definitely hurt. With clamoring hands and feet, she only managed to make the gulley closest to her slicker. She slid further from her goal.

"I'm going to get out of here," she muttered through clenched teeth. The breeze overhead seemed to laugh at her determination. She made a fist and squeezed the mud through her fingers. Tightening every muscle in her body, she screamed. "Damn it!"

Anger at her own stupidity cinched her realization; she was trapped like a lone maverick. She should have known better. Stupid. Would she spend her whole adventure stuck in the bottom of this gulley?

…To be continued.

WIP Update

The Talisman

Book One

Chapter 1

Part d

Present Day

…continued.

Now where was I? The baseball field, a field that wasn't cleared of trees yet, or was it? A stage station would need corrals and water for horses as well as a reasonable place to ford the river. She closed her eyes, trying to retrace the country road running north and south where the baseball field would one day be. Yedi danced nervously under her as if responding to her own anxiety level. Unwilling to label whether she felt excitement or fear, she took a deep breath, pushing the niggling guilt of not worrying about her mother aside. Careful to be as accurate as she could imagine, she pointed at the spot where the field would be and opened her eyes. It was no use.

She'd have to ride down the valley if she wanted to be sure and knowing would help her adjust to whatever year she now found herself in. It would take a good part of the day to get there but she needed to start somewhere. It had to be the late 1800s. If it got dangerous, she only had to survive seven days until the talisman could work its magic again. One could do that on just water. Not a bad place to start an adventure.

First, she needed to locate her hat.

...Next week--Chapter 2

This has been the first week and I've shred with you my current WIP (work in progress). I'm inviting your comments, suggestions and questions .

WIP Update

The Talisman

Book One

Chapter 1

Part c

Present Day

…continued…

Trish smiled remembering how Grammy ended every story with the same promise.

Tell of my heart 'cross fallow lost places

Bitter sweet secrets to heart of my tale,

Wind without wine to far times and places

Alter time's misstep in wide-open spaces

Protect the talisman, keep her from harm

Criss-cross my heart and hope never to die.

It wasn't until Trish had promised, word for word, that Grammy gave her the talisman.

Was she, Patricia Anne Larsen, ready for her first adventure in time? The "criss-cross her heart and hope never to die" was the easy part. No one she knew wanted to die. It was the rest of the pledge that caused her a moment of pause. It didn't matter. She was here, but where exactly was here? "…Fallow lost places, …far times and places, and …wide-open spaces" covered a lot of area in cosmic space. She scanned the valley searching for the straight clearing that would mark the railroad tracks and wished she could fly. She didn't think she saw anything. Okay girl, stay calm and think.

The valley was the same. She double-checked for Borah Peak. Yes, it still stood as sentry to the north--place located. No vehicles. No roads. Some settlers, if those were actually cabins. It had to be the late 1800s to have this many settlers. She tried to find the railroad right-of-way she had crossed earlier. The right-of-way wasn't cleared. The railroad tracks were laid in this valley in the early 1900s and torn out in the early 1980s for some reason that she never understood.

No railroad tracks. More trees as in a lot more.

What would a stagecoach stop look like? She wasn't sure but a smattering of buildings in one area might be where the stage stopped. Her mind retraced the old stories. Yes, Mom had mentioned a community proposal recently, something about an Eagle Scout petitioning for support to erect a stagecoach monument at the baseball field. Time narrowed somewhat.

Mom! Trish's throat went dry. She had left home this morning without saying goodbye to Rhea, her at times over-protective mother. A slip-up she had regretted while telling Vance, her cousin she was off for a very long ride. Worry seized her, cutting off her air supply. Mom would worry. "Worry," as part of Rhea's christened name must have been a slight oversight. A day of intermittent worry would be good for her, but a week? Not so good. And if she and Vance compared notes… Trish tried in vain to recollect the tone she had used this morning. Yedi had been difficult to catch and she'd been in a sour mood. Would Vance think her flippant tone a reason to disappear for a week? What conclusion would Mom then draw?

No. I refuse to worry about Mom's constant worry. I have my adventure to think about.

...to be continued.

WIP Update

The Talisman

Book One

Chapter 1

Part b

Present Day

…continued…

Yedi listened, his ears turned, indicating his full attention. "I always kept my promises to Grammy, even if she seemed a bit loony at times. I know she's dead, but today's my birthday and I promised her that if on my thirtieth birthday I wasn't married or an attorney, I'd do it. So that's it. No more discussion." She let the reins sag, and took the chain in her left hand, the talisman dancing in the bright sunlight.

"Clockwise forward, counter clockwise back, I just wish--" She flicked the inner scrolls with her fingernail sending it spinning. A gust of wind at her back caught her cowboy hat and sent it flying over Yedi's head. Yedi spooked, crow-hopped and spun. Trish grabbed at the reins and brought him up short.

"Easy, easy boy. It was just my hat. Look, there it is." Her hat balanced on its brim near the edge of the gulley, poised to continue its runaway flight.

Frustrated with yet another thing going amiss in her life, her favorite curse formed on her lips. She bit it back and dismounted, leading Yedi toward her hat. As she reached for it, another gust of wind carried it out and over the gulley. She watched as the hat flirted with the air currents before dropping to settle below her. Things didn't seem all that different. Maybe the talisman and its magical ability to transport her through time and space was all a fantastical and continual fantasy of Grammy's. Trish turned to remount.

"Well, I'm not walking down in there alone. You're coming with me. We'll have to find a way down, and I don't want to go to the bottom--"

Trish stopped. Her stomach bucked. Paralyzed, her hand rested on the saddle horn, her foot in the stirrup, her weight balanced across Yedi's back. The view from his back had changed. Open and groomed fields of crops no longer graced the valley floor as they had moments ago. Stands of trees filled most of the valley, dotted with the occasional brown of small buildings. There were no tractors, no cars or pick-ups traversing country roads. In fact, there weren't any roads.

Had Grammy been sane all along? Trish settled in the saddle and stared at the scene before her, her hat momentarily forgotten. Her mind raced through Grammy's stories. Stories of time travel, romance, and adventure. Wonderful stories of times long forgotten or romanticized by paperback novels and old movies. Stories of unbelievable characters in futuristic setting that put the biggest blockbusters to shame. But all of Grammy's stories had two things in common… Grammy and romance.

Trish grasped the chain about her neck, lifting it into the sunlight. The talisman remained as beautiful, but somehow not quite as alive. The reflected sunlight didn't dance, it merely reflected off the metallic surfaces. The crystal no longer glowed. What had Grammy said?

"My adventures were not always glamorous but they were always very real. Sometimes full of romance, other times deception and danger. I wasn't ever afraid at those dangerous times. I knew the talisman worked in a seven-day cycle. I just had to survive for seven days until the cycle began again. Of course there were times I didn't use the talisman, letting it lay dormant for sixty-three days and once even a year. But that year cost me. You must not abuse the talisman. If you do, it will have its revenge. And that, my dear is why I must have your promise…"

...to be continued.

WIP Update

Some time ago, a friend read an working excerpt from this manuscript. It was rough and it was rough. I feared that the scene would offend. The friend is prodding me to get this done as quickly as possible and not quick enough for her satisfaction. Of course it takes time to write and untangle the ins nd outs of time-travel, especially when it is my hope to have a trilogy.

The casual reader my not be interested and be forewarned...this is a work in progress. Why share it? I've been asked to. And I firmly believe that comments from readers, like each of you, will help me catch and iron out the wrinkles. This isn't a task for the faint of heart.

The Talisman

Book One

Chapter 1

Present Day

"That's it then." Trish patted Yedi, her prized Arabian stallion, on the neck. She sat erect and yet relaxed.

The sun inched higher above the eastern mountains. May was always a beautiful month, one she looked forward to for more than the new greenery. It was the month of her birthday--May seventeenth, and the date she used to mark visits from Grammy, and her stories. Stories of travel and wild adventures, stories Grammy had promised, "criss-cross my heart and hope never to die," were true.

The valley lay below Trish. Tractors crawled like ants in the fields. A vehicle sped down a country road spewing a trail of dust in the early morning light. Despite the tranquility around her, Trish's heart still weighed heavy at her latest failure.

That's the third time I tried to pass the bar. I guess I'll never prosecute a case in a court of law. It's a pity, really. All I've ever wanted to do was be a successful attorney. I sat right here on my twentieth birthday and vowed I'd get there. Now it's ten years later, I'm still not there. She sighed feeling her shoulders sag. Maybe Grammy was right about what I should be.

Trish withdrew her grandmother's gaudy yet delicately beautiful trinket from under her shirt. It dangled on the long chain Trish wore around her neck. Sunlight shimmered on the intricate scrollwork delicately woven around the inner crystal. The design of the outer casing allowed the inner scrolls to turn one way while the outer scrolls turned the other. She fondled the talisman lovingly, keeping it from spinning.

Yedi shifted his feet. Trish clasped her hand tightly about the talisman and leaned forward slightly. Yedi responded to her cue moving forward at a gentle walk. Trish reined him in near the stand of cottonwoods at the edge of the gulley. Again she fondled the trinket.

"I promised, you know."

...to be continued.

Fight! Fight!

Excerpt from current WIP (work in progress)

"An' ya think ya can just come in 'ere and bed her?" Quinn bit off the question.


"No wonder she's so lonely in bed. 'Course you probably don't know how to satisfy her anyway."

Quinn answered Kueter with a stiff upper cut. Kueter stumbled back, caught off-guard. He regained his balance and charged. Fists landed on muscle, leaving bruises in their wake. Quinn's fist found Kueter's nose. The awful crunch of smashed cartilage signaled severe injury.

Kueter answered with a wicked blow to Quinn's eye socket, tearing flesh. Quinn advanced sending punch after punch to his opponent's soft under belly. He didn't care for the man or his implications. This was Quinn's territory. Zelda was his girl. A table crashed to the floor under the weight of grown men. Quinn was up first, but Kueter charged again, wrapping his arms around Quinn's middle and driving him back. Quinn staggered back against the bar, the solid wood bruising his back.

Tuckett stepped in, picking up the whiskey bottle Quinn had drained. Quinn saw Tuckett raise the bottle overhead out of the corner of his uninjured eye, twisting he blocked Tuckett's blow with his arm. A nasty gash spurted blood in all directions. Kueter punched Quinn hard in the left kidney. Quinn arched to the side and back in reflex. Both men continued their battle, pushing Quinn to a murderous frenzy, fighting both men at the same time.

At last the foray calmed for a moment.

"Get his carcass out of here before I kill both of ya." Quinn bellowed, chasing them to the hitching rail with his staggering steps.

Tuckett pushed Kueter up on his dun with Kueter unable to sit erect in the saddle.

Tuckett turned back to Quinn. "Next time."

"Get out." Quinn growled feeling a glimmer of victory.

Tuckett climbed on his own horse and lit out in the same direction Kueter had gone, southwest.