Levon knew exactly what Jesse's sucking chest-wound meant. "Now you just lie still, pard," he whispered.

There had been only one shot fired, but Jesse took the ricochet off the rocks and lay on his side, unmindful of the shale shards digging into his ornery hide.

Levon was on his belly and elbows, his .50-caliber Hawken tracking his eyes as he scanned the rocky red bluffs that towered over him and his compadre. The bluffs the bushwhacker had fired from and was now using for cover.

"You see anything, ol' son?" asked Levon, fully aware Jesse couldn't reply. "I don't like this here position any more than a cougar cottons to water, but at least you fell near enough to these boulders to provide some cover, and even a little shade." And there ain't been a second shot, Levon kept to himself. So far.

Levon took his eyes off the bluffs just long enough to see that Jesse was still breathing. "Ain't the worse scrape we ever got out of, eh, Jess? Remember that time outside of Medicine Hat, when..."


"You know, Jess, I almost wish the bushwhacker'd fire another round. I know that's akin to drawing to an inside straight in a joint where the fix is always in, but what the hell, huh, the coward ain't hit nothing clean the first time. Probably just a cross-eyed old Kioway with a rusty Spanish flintlock. Yes sir, a flash, or a puff of smoke would give me something to shoot at."




"Now, what was I sayin'? Oh yeah, that time up near Laramie when Scanlon's boys set the cabin to fire..."



Hours passed, and Levon was sure the bushwacker had skedaddled. Injuns ain't big on stamina.

He used the rifle to help himself stand.

"Aw, Jess, this ain't the way it's supposed to be."

Levon uncinched Jesse's saddle. He slung his poke and his truck over his shoulder and sighted on the setting sun. He had a long walk ahead.

"Damned if I'm comin' down onto the flat again," was his way of saying vaya con Dios.