Book One
    Smith Paul
     "Ikhimilo"

    The two friends trudged on in silence, taking a lesser road that swung to the south of the outpost. The blue dusk gave way to an early winter twilight, set aglow by a crisp, high moon. But Burkitt showed no sign of stopping for the night. Smith sensed that his friend wished to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the fort.
    "You can go ahead and say I told you so if you want," Smith finally murmured to his friend.
    "I ain’t said nothin’," Burkitt grumbled.
    "Does somebody have a reward out for you? Not that it makes any difference, but do they?"
    "I tol’ you…ain’t nobody lookin’ for me ’cause ain’t nobody own me."
    "But if you’d shown them some kind of legal paper that proves you’re free, it might have helped."
    "You long on fightin’ tallow, boy. But they a few things..." Burkitt’s voice died away, and he put a finger to his lips for silence as the muffled sound of hoof beats issued softly on the trail behind them. Saddle horses, less than a quarter mile back down the trail toward Gower.
    "How much shot you got left?" Burkitt whispered, reaching for his own rifle pouch.
    "Hezekiah, you know I don’t hardly have any."
    "You had a lick o’ sense, you’d hightail it outta here right now. But I ain’t camped wid you these two months ’thout seein’ that the Good Lord put some mighty righteous stuff in you."
     Burkitt moved to Scrap Iron and undid the cinch ropes of her pack. As the entire load of pelts and gear slid to the ground, he put his mouth to the little creature’s ear. "Scrap Iron," he whispered huskily, "now you be a good girl and skedaddle on outta here." He slapped the donkey’s rump, but she simply turned and looked at him with surprise and confusion in her doe-like eyes. "Go on, now, git!" Burkitt shoved the little beast from behind with all his weight.
     Scrap Iron finally took the hint and started down the trail. When she paused and glanced back over her shoulder, Burkitt snapped off a hickory branch and lobbed it at her. The little donkey broke into a trot, then vanished into the driving snow.
     Burkitt and Smith crept as quietly as they could off the trail just seconds before four dark shapes loomed out of the snowfall. Fletcher and his men reined in and dismounted at Burkitt’s heap of gear. As his companions searched the fresh-fallen snow for their tracks, Fletcher called into the trees, "C’mon out, boy. Bring him to us. If there’s a reward, we’ll cut you in."
    Smith realized with horror that the tow-headed man was wearing a set of wrist irons on his belt.
    At that moment, Fletcher spotted their tracks. The four cronies drew pistols and gave chase.
    Burkitt and Smith plunged down a shallow embankment and struggled through a thick stand of willow saplings. Smith hoped that the whip-like young trees would render the chase more difficult for the portly fellows pursuing them, then realized with a sinking sensation that they couldn’t offer any protection against a well-aimed bullet.
    Burkitt led him out of the grove of saplings to the leeward side of a great, fallen oak, then Smith peered out from behind the tree. The men were in close pursuit, and they had marked the place where the Negro and the white boy were taking cover.
    As Burkitt and Smith loaded their rifles with trembling hands, the first shot chipped the tree trunk. They eased their muzzles along the trunk and prepared to return fire. And then they heard a forlorn braying.
    Scrap Iron was working her way back up the trail, calling out  plaintively for the man who always scratched the itchy places on her back.
    Fletcher’s cronies spotted the little animal at once. "Look here, boys. Target practice!"
    Smith, crouching behind the fallen oak, felt his flesh crawl at the cruelty in their laughter.
    The first few shots flew wide, kicking up the snow before the frightened creature’s hooves. The next shot buried itself in the base of her neck. Smith bowed his head; he could already see what was coming. Burkitt couldn’t possibly sit idly by while Scrap Iron was butchered before them.
    The little donkey rolled her eyes in bewilderment as a ribbon of steaming liquid, sable-black against her dark coat, rolled down her breast. The second shot took her in the left knee, dropped her headfirst into the snow. With this, Burkitt was up, sprinting across the frozen ground toward his longtime companion, exposing himself to the line of fire.
    Smith would later marvel at the strange clairvoyance that came to him the moment Burkitt leapt from their shelter behind the oak. For those few haunted seconds, he knew exactly what was going to happen next.
    They’ll get him first in the thigh, he thought, even as the deafening report of Fletcher’s Hawken rifle rang out. A ragged corona of leather and blood bloomed above the right knee of Burkitt’s deerskin breeches. He stumbled, but continued on.
    Now they’ll hit his left leg just above the ankle, Smith thought, in mind-numbing horror. The next lead ball passed cleanly through Burkitt’s left tendon, severing it. As his weight came down on it, the leg collapsed beneath him, and he tumbled into the snow.
    Fletcher’s men had aimed low intentionally. Kill the merchandise, claim no bounty.
    Blind fury took hold of Smith. As Fletcher’s men surrounded his friend, he threw himself at them, swinging with bare fists. The tow-headed fellow swung his pair of wrist irons high in the air, then brought them down hard on the side of Smith’s skull. All at once, the scene before him skewed sideways. The snowy ground rose to smack against his cheek.
    Then the world went black.

    "And I’ll buy you a new hat with a matching fan," Joe was saying as he and Althea made their way up Paul Street, heading for the train. "You’ll be the envy of all the ladies in Paul’s Valley."
    "Now, darlin’, you know I’m already the envy of all the ladies in Paul’s Valley, ‘cause I give their husbands something they can’t. Not that I wouldn’t love a new hat, though.
    " Joe was barely listening to her chatter. His mind was focused on the task at hand, like a panther intent on its prey. He would win Althea away from Sam today, striking another blow to his father’s seemingly unassailable greatness.
    But then Althea stopped and tugged on his arm. He turned to see that the color had drained from her face, then he noticed that everyone else on the boardwalk had stopped, too. They were looking at Joe and Althea, then at something ahead in the road. As Joe followed their gaze, his blood froze in his veins.
    Sam was standing on the corner outside the bank, staring at the two of them, his eyes burning with an inhuman rage.
    Joe’s mind raced through his options. The haberdashery to his left was closed, the shopkeeper evidently taking an early dinner somewhere. And sprinting into the narrow alley between the bank and the telegraph office would mean risking eight or nine paces across the open street—too far, given Sam’s legendary speed with the draw. Which left Joe only one choice.
    He stepped toward his father, bringing him into the range of his gun. The only problem was that he was also stepping into his father’s sights.
    Sam dropped his satchel and moved to the center of the street.
    A lone horseman rode past, stirring up a cloud of dust. When the haze cleared, Joe could see that his father had opened his coat, exposing his pistol.
    It’s me or him now, Joe told himself, amazed at the clear calm that had settled over him. At least, whichever way it goes, I’ll be rid of the bastard once and for all.
    Inside the dry-goods store on Chickasaw Street, Will and Sippie Hull were stocking up for the Christmas rush. Sippie was refolding a bolt of calico, when something lurking just under the tip of her consciousness surfaced. The normally bustling street had fallen deathly quiet. She glanced out the front window to see that everyone out on the street was standing perfectly still, staring at something.
    Sippie pulled William away from his ledgers, and they hurried outside.
    When she saw what was going on outside, Sippie gasped and started into the street, as if thinking to place herself between father and son. Will caught her by the sleeve and pulled her back inside. No one could stop what was about to happen.
    A scuffling sound on the boardwalk behind him broke Joe’s concentration for a half-second. A half-second too long. When he turned around again, Sam was drawing his gun.
    Joe instantly went for his.
    But Sam’s bullet left its chamber before Joe’s fingers could close around his gun. The first shot pinged a tin sign over Joe’s left shoulder, but the second, which followed close on its heels, lodged itself in his stomach. Joe staggered, but he managed to keep his aim. As Sam fired his third round, Joe pulled the trigger. His father’s third shot cut deep into Joe’s ribs, but Joe’s bullet took Sam in the thigh and sent him sprawling on his back into the dust.
    Joe forced himself to remain standing long enough to see that Sam was unable to shoot back, then he dropped to his knees and fell over on his side.
    As the world faded from his consciousness, Joe saw Althea Patrick rushing past him, screaming hysterically, "Somebody get Doc Shannon! Sam Paul’s been shot!"