A woman’s bloodcurdling scream pierced the silence of a warm summer night.

The ranch house homestead sat atop a lazy sloping hill overlooking an open grazing land built upon the foundation of red clay dirt longing for one more good rain before the driest of the summer months came settle above the Texas plains. It was by no means the richest land surrounding Fort Trinity but it was far from the worst, too. A man smart enough to handle his business would be able to raise a good herd here and tack onto the big drives heading up to Kansas City and points east well enough to raise a family and call the land a true home.

Unfortunately, unbeknownst to his family, Ted Stetz had spent less time pouring blood and sweat into the land and more time pouring money he didn’t have into the tables at the Lucky Sevens. Mother Nature may have been content to wait just a little longer for a much-needed rain, but the Lucky Sevens wasn’t going to wait any longer to send a message that, one way or another, everyone pays up.

The front door to the two-story farm swung open forcefully and paved the way for the unceremonious parade of two pistol-wielding gangsters, dragging the kicking and cursing Stetz by the hair from the safety and warmth of his bed and home and under an unforgiving Texas moon. A confused, frightened and frantic wife followed close behind with embittered pleas that the assailants release her husband, all falling on deaf ears as the men brought the accused before his judge, jury and soon-to-be executioner sitting on horseback and flanked by two more men bearing rifles and holding torches to illuminate the night.

“Evenin’, Ted,” the man greeted, adjusting the brim of a black bowler hat leaning back in the saddle and glaring down as the rancher came to a crashing stop on the ground courtesy of rough and ready care at the hands of his assailants. The wife’s attempt to rush to her husband’s side was abruptly stopped, her frame caught around the midsection by a loyal gangster who was happy to quietly remind her of the iron piece ready and willing for action in his hand.

The court of “Gentleman” George Ramsey was called to order.

“George, listen to me,” Stetz pleading from his needs, the gentle insistence of a pistol in the middle of his back and a rough hand gripping his collar forcing his attention up to the man on horseback, “you’ve just got to give me a little more time. I swear, I can get you the money. I just need time, please!”

“You know, Ted, I’ve tried to be a reasonable businessman about all of this. A good line of credit, even forgiving that one bad run of luck you had at my tables a few months ago as a sign of good faith that we were going to handle this like proper and civil gentleman,” the man spoke with an air of sympathy about him, as if it pained Ramsey to be put in this position. As if he were the victim.

“Just give me a week. I can –“

“Don’t interrupt me, please Ted,” Ramsey spoke with a calm demeanor and an outstretched hand with a palm facing the hard-luck rancher. “I really prefer not to argue about all of this. We both know that you had the money for me a week ago and decided that it was better in the unwashed hands of those immigrants you call field hands instead of satisfying that little debt. Playing at my tables, drinking some of my finest, all without a harsh or embarrassing word from me or mine in the public eye.”

“Ain’t nobody cross the Gentlemen an’ –“ the gangster holding the fun to the back of the man’s head spoke before the boss cut him off sharply.

“That’s enough! If you want to go visiting sins and intentions, maybe I’ll rethinking letting you work off your debt like this, Billy.” The words were more than enough to shut the young man’s jaw and reset the order of the proceedings where they always landed – right back in the favor of the man pulling all the strings.

“I just want to make sure that we’re looking at this through the proper perspective and remembering what’s really important here, Ted. I don’t want anyone hurt, but a businessman is only as good as his reputation. And if I were to get the reputation that people could just walk into my doors, take anything they wanted, and walk out again with a smile and clear conscience, what would that say about our fair community?”

“You greedy bastard!” The wife screamed, restrained tightly.

“Now now, dear lady, no need for name calling. I’m not the one that’s wasting every other night away in sin and vice like your husband. Really Ted,” Ramsey said with a clicking of his tongue, I’m only trying to help.”

“Please…please don’t…” the man pleaded as Ramsey waved his hand, sending the crew into action.

One of the men on horseback dismounted and led the way as they dragged Stetz around the corner of the large porch to were a large pecan tree shielded the east side of the house. It was there that the haunting image of an open noose lay in waiting from a sturdy branch, beckoning them forth. At the side, another cry came burst from the wife’s throat as they jerked a resistant Ted Stetz to his feet and hoisted him onto a wooden stool and tied the noose around his neck.

“I’m sure you’ve heard rumors that there are some gentlemen from Fort Worth that would love to see a railroad come down through this territory. Problem is, “ Ramsey explained as if indifferent to the fact that they were stringing the man to a tree, “railroaders seem to have a bit of difficulty building on land privately owned with all these little quaint farmhouses. Seems to me that if someone were help clear the way, business would sure improve. One might even take that as a sign of good faith a man might be worth a second chance,” he said with an anything-but-subtle hinting tone.

“So what will it be, Ted? Take a chance to help my friends in Fort Worth bring business and prosperity to our little community or make me have to do something unpleasant because you won’t redeem yourself to help everyone else?”

With that, one of the gangsters shove a torch in the unwilling hand of Ted Stetz.

“I…I don’t…” The man had no shame in the tears that filled his eyes now as he weighed the decisions of his life. The flames from the torch danced in the still air of the summer night, highlighting every detail of the agony on his face as eyes jumped between the face of his bawling wife, the house he’d built for his family, and the cold stare of the Gentleman.

“Okay. Okay George. You…you win.” With what little strength the man could muster, Ted Stetz carefully balanced himself on the wooden stool and underhand tossed the torch onto the angled roof of the house. Within seconds, the hungry flames began to spread with the eager invasion in the same of progress and some sick desire to test a man’s soul.

Other than the unabashed tears and wails of the woman and a snicker from one of the gangsters, the night air was penetrating only by the crackling and popping of a burning roof spreading too fast for anyone to stop now.

“Ted,” Ramsey said with a long sigh, “I can’t believe that you would do something like that. I’m all for progress, but sacrificing your family’s well-being just to make a few dollars at the hands of some greedy city railroad tycoons? I’m afraid that’s just not the sort of man I can have if Ft. Trinity is going to be the kind of community that we all want it to be. I’m sorry, Ted.”

Horror crept into the eyes of the man. He opened his mouth to scream, but just as the terror began to sound, a swift kick to the stool’s leg brought the weight of the man down, tightening the slack on the rope and cutting off the sweet taste of oxygen that Ted Stetz would never experience again. Instinctively, his hand went to the rope and legs frantically searched for ground just out of their reach. The wife tried in vain to break free, but the grip was simply too strong for her panicked attempts to escape.

The hushed tones of a man strangling to death he was hanged stuck with anyone who witnesses it. Then again, this was the first time that “Gentleman” George Ramsey and his Lucky Sevens Gang collected a debt in the name of progress, prosperity, and pure malice.

Minutes later, Ramsey and the Sevens rode away under the Texas moon, backlit by the burning homestead as the wife of Ted Stetz hugging tightly to her husband’s dead and hanging body, her cries piercing the very sky and surely reaching the ears of God as she the man she was sure to be the Devil himself rode away in the direction of Fort Trinity, Texas.

Fire. Flames danced around her mind vivid enough she could have sworn she could smell the smoke, feel the heat of the flames, then one bloodcurdling scream cut short by the sound of a gun and with it her eyes flew open as she sat up quickly in bed, a cold sweat causing her night gown to cling to her body, resting her head in her hands Ana tried to steady her breathing and she came to terms that it had just been a nightmare, the same recurring nightmare that had plagued her dreams for years, ever since her dealings with George Ramsey, sure he was charming and kind to her yet deep down no amount of kindness he showed her could erase her fear of him, he well and truly had her in a stranglehold.

Kicking away her covers she stood up and called for her maid to fill up the bath, Ana was lucky, she had many thing she could be proud of, she owned this beautiful house, her own land and the grandest entertainment establishment in town yet she still had Mr Ramsey to thank for most of this and she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to take it all away. Running a hand through her hair she walked out of her room down the hall to her bathroom, walking in she stripped her nightgown and sank into the warm bath.

With her long golden hair washed and lightly curled she proceeded to dress for her trip into town, once ready she walked out front to see her buggy all ready and waiting out front. Climbing in she placed her carpet bag beside her and pulled out a revolver, the Frontier was a dangerous place especially for a woman travelling alone so she never travelled without a gun to protect herself.

The journey to town was relatively pleasant that morning, with the sun warmly beaming down on her yet it’s usual unbearable heat was subdued by the light cooling wind, so besides the bumpy trail it was a most pleasant ride. After leaving her horse and buggy at the Livery she walked down the boardwalk saying hello to people in passing, finally reaching her destination she opened the doors to ‘The Palace’ a smile graced her beautiful face, the old plantation style building stuck out like a sore thumb in Fort Trinity yet she didn’t give two hoots, she wanted the best establishment so she would have the best establishment.

“Good mornin’ Lucas” she called chirpily to the bar tender “What a mighty fine day we have today, be good for business I dare say.”

Lucas laughed lightly as he placed the clean glasses back on the shelves “That it is ma’am” he agreed “say did you hear about what happened last night?” he asked.

Ana shook her head “my oh my Lucas you turnin’ into a regular gossip!”She cried jokingly with a small laugh but seeing the seriousness of his features made her stop “judgin’ by your expression this isn’t just some idle gossip.”

Lucas shook his head “No it is not” he stated plainly, Ana approached the bar not knowing whether she wanted to hear what he was about to say “Tom Stetz was murdered last night, strung up like a common thief and his homestead burned to the ground” he explained.

Ana gasped and hand flying to her mouth “what of his wife?” she asked utterly stunned at the news, she wished she could say that she was shocked yet the sad truth was things like these weren’t a common occurrence in these parts.

“They left her alive” he answered.

“Who would do such a dastardly thing?” she asked shaking her head lightly “He was such a lovely man!”

Lucas leaned forward and looked around to make sure no one was around to hear “Well rumour has it he owed Mr Ramsey a lot of money.” Lucas didn’t need to say another word for Ana knew just what kind of man could have committed this crime.

FRANK GREGORY & PRESTON RIZZO

The town of Empire City, Colorado, drank the water coming off of the Huerfano river. There is a small cave branching off of the main dirt path where the wagons traveled back and forth to bring water to the town and where residents went to wash their garments and occasionally fish; the cave resided 63 yards away from this trail, and was hidden by a large thicket of bushes and trees, as this was where the treeline began before the large hills surrounding the town began popping up inside this forest. The cave was inhabited by the meekest of God's creatures, including frogs, ants, some very inbred bacteria, and the occasional bird seeking warmth in the winter. Coyotes were known to frequent the area, but it was never proven that they had kept their pack in the cave. The caverns led beneath the closest hill to Empire City, sometimes called Justice Falls for the various stories of men who fell and injured themselves after having something painful coming their way via karma. Inside this cave was something more vast than eternity, and something that even God could not touch; moss grew thick on the walls and floor where there was not dirt, and if one sat on it, it could almost be mistaken for grass. It was a special kind of green, the kind that was seen in the sky right before a tornado came through, or when algae glowed in lakes on special occasions. The dank air smelled thick, and the crickets inside hummed of mystery.

When Frank Gregory was 8 years old, he went to this cave with his older brothers, Rex, Jim, and Cleon, and explored the various caverns and corners of this cave. Inside, they found numerous Indian artifacts and drawings on the walls and ceilings, and as they went deeper, found more proof than Indians had once inhabited this place. There was something mystical about it, how it was a form of nature away from nature; the confined spaces, total darkness without his kerosene lantern, dripping spaces, and sheer heat reminded him of hell, but he only saw it that way after his brothers extinguished their lamps and left him alone, standing in the darkness of that cave, his existence melting into the cavern walls like the dew it had been sweating for thousands of years. He had never been so scared in his life as that one moment, that one defining moment that helped cultivate the mass of his character for every day after. All he could think to do was to be brave; his father, the largest man (and at the same time, the shortest man) he'd ever known wasn't afraid of anything. Frank braved the darkness of that cave and, with every ounce of patience his little body could muster, delivered justice to his three older brothers one by one before his ninth birthday.

Outside of Bonham, Texas, Frank dreamed of that cave when the sun began to come up. Ever since that day, he was visited by nightmares of going deeper and deeper into the cave, only to have his lamp extinguished by some otherworldly force. He was still stricken with fear, even at 39 years of age, and never was able to unpry how deeply the fear needled his lungs. Even during the war, he tried making himself scared on several occasions to evoke something useful out of his condition, but nothing hurt more than the cave near Empire City. It all seemed so far away, and rightly so; he wasn't even from Empire City. He was from a homestead outside of Jackal Flats, across the river and past the cornfield, the wheat field, the other cornfield, and Old Man Carruthers' 17 acres of dirt. The cave was so far away from his home, but the experience never left him. In that field, outside of Bonham, the only thing that comforted him and helped bring his mind back to the world was the cool air of the morning and the drops of dew running across the surface of his wool blanket and down to his shirt and neck as he began sitting up to observe God's next sunrise. He breathed deeply, taking in the freshest air he'd breathed since he had been to Tennessee, and smelled how close the grass was, the movements of his horse Tornado as he tromped around fighting bugs with his tail, and observed the stillness of the prairie as it all seemed to close in on him.

Frank looked across the firepit to Preston Rizzo, a man who had saved his life. Preston was still fast asleep, his head resting on his shoes wrapped up in a thick shirt. Frank himself had been resting on his rolled-up Army coat, which provided more cushion than town folk would think. He pulled the blanket off of his body and slid toward the firepit, assessing the condition of the coals that were still red underneath all the ashes. Indeed, there was enough heat to start another log on the way to cooking their breakfast. Frank quickly rubbed his arms to provide his skin warmth as he began assembling kindling to place on the coals, and did so before throwing the first log he touched onto the already-smoldering twigs and papers. With several motions and habits that had become second nature after all his years on the road, he prepared a small skillet and a coffee pot, and only stopped to think when Preston awoke.

"Oy, whas dat, Frankie?"

"Pig 'n coff. Hungry?"

"Nawh, ah chew sum hardtack onna road," Preston shivered a bit when he removed his blanket from his body, and began preparing a tin cup for coffee. "Secund thawt, ah take dat coffee thar, pard,"

Frank observed smoke coming from the spout of the coffee tin, and nodded toward Preston that it was ready. Preston grabbed the rope-laced handle and poured a fine amount into his cup, then putting the tin back on top of the fire pit's cooking grate, tipping the handle toward Frank before taking a very careful sip of the hot drink.

"Taste like crap, Frankie, you ain't doin' it raht,"

"Youse delusional, boy, iss de same as iss always been." Frank retorted.

"YOUSE delusional, old man, you never know'd how inna foisplace."

"Well don't drank it then."

"Ah'll drank yer dungcoff fer nah, iss da only thang keepin me from freezin intuh a popsicle."

Frank poured himself a cup and grew impatient with the bacon cooking on his skillet, and had begun to eat it half-crispy and half-raw.

"Yeh shouldn't eat that shit that way, Frankie, iss bad for ya. 'member Fox at Honey Springs? Ate that damn rabbit onna way from Gibson and was useless by the time the artillery started. You coulda put that rabbit back togetha with all tha parts he upchucked."

"Ah cooked it, Preston, yeh shouldn't hawk ovah peoples business, ya know that? Youse one nosy sunbitch."

"Well ah know howta make coffee,"

They paused another moment as the sun continued racing to the top of the sky.

"Where's we goin' today, pard?" Frank said between smacks of fried pig in his mouth.

"Well, lemme look," Preston retrieved a map of the area, trying to identify where they were and their path in relation to where they were going. "Where are we?"

"Judging by your judgment, we're lost."

"You're a sunbitch, too; what was that town we went to yesterday?"

"The one with the blonde whore standin' outside that laundry?"

"I dunno if she wuz a whore or not, but she was certainly a milestone. That town, yeah."

"Bonham. Bonham, Texas."

"Okay," With tired eyes, Preston focused on something too specific for work at that time of day. "Fort Trinity is east aways. We've got maybe 20 miles," Preston took another sip of coffee as he observed Frank. "You sure that Rex is out there?"

"Well," Frank took another bite of bacon rudely. "we come too far to turn back now, ain't we?"

"I guess so," Preston warmed his hands on his cup and smelled the coffee grains wafting up in the steam. "What if he ain't?"

"Well, we can't go back, can we?"

"I don't know," Preston thought a moment. "Can we?"

"I don't know."

They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the idea of returning home.

"I don't WANT to, if that's what you're asking." Frank answered.

"Well, you wanna settle here?"

"We's old men, Preston, I'm tired of this trailblazing shit. Ah got enough of that when we left the first time; only difference now is that we ain't starvin'."

"Yup," Preston stayed silent and very still and he thought. "You think there's good women out here?"

"Well, iss good enough for them Confederate boys, and Sam Houston's boys. Texas is a God damned place. It's hot all the time, hardly nothin grows, it seems like a really shit place. The women that survive this Hell must have something worth falling in love with."

"This ain't Hell, Frankie. Indian Territory's Hell. It's the part of Hell that the devil didn't want."

"Ah'll drank teh that," Frank said quickly as he downed more coffee.

Within an hour, they were fed, packed, dressed and mounted, their horses beating one hoof after another closer to Fort Trinity. Their hats were squeezed onto their heads comfortably, as they had been for years, Frank's hat having been with him since he was a boy. When he began doing real field work with his father at age 13, his father bought him a large (at the time) floppy black hat that covered him well when he worked. The sun was torturous in the mountains, and when he enlisted to fight in the Civil War, the hat likely saved his life as he marched from New Mexico to Georgia. The southern heat was unbearable; he had hardly dealt with such intense heat during Colorado summers, with average highs topping a little past 80 degrees, and if he had been using a standard-issue kepi, he more than likely would have died from heat stroke before the first year was over. Preston, however, enjoyed the kepi; it fit great, he didn't have to worry about brims getting in the way of anything, and it looked quite attractive on him. His war-issue kepi was also on his head as he rode toward Fort Trinity, but their worries had nothing to do with the sun.

They were hardened old men, and all they needed to focus on was the trail in front of them and making sure that they weren't faced with any trouble. Since they had begun their journey, they had been attacked 4 separate times, twice in Indian Territory and twice in Texas, by societal ruffians that wanted to take advantage of their frugal situation. Little did the bandits know, however, that these men were armed well, and on every occasion, only one man got away to tell the tale of their failed robbery. Preston and Frank had become very skilled in the art of the gunfight, especially working together, and with the irregular tactics used by their unit in the war drilled into their brain, their minds go somewhere else when faced with a threat. This, however, was not one of their worries, either. Frank's main cause of concern was Preston's bold questions at breakfast, asking if his brother Rex would be in Fort Trinity like he thought he was. Before he left in 1861, Frank had a conversation with his oldest brother, Rex, concerning the blooming of a former military outpost where he planned to escape the war with his pregnant wife called Trinity (Rex wasn't aware that it was still referred with the 'Fort' connotation). After Frank returned home and found it pillaged by pro-southern gangs and reports that his family had been killed, he settled with grief and attempted to rebuild. After Arapaho guerrillas wrecked his life for the second time, Frank, perhaps out of desperation or some kind of mental crisis, decided to leave Colorado in search of Rex. His research did not show any towns named Trinity, as his brother had specifically called it, but a Fort Trinity was indeed on the map and provided the last bastion of hope for keeping his sanity together.

==

They came passing by a farmstead after losing the crude road two miles away. The entire path from the end of the road until they'd seen the silhouette of the farm house had been strewn with a pungent smell that only a man who had smelled a burning house would recognize; it was as though it had been scattered about their trail like a Catholic priest spreading incense at Sunday mass. Frank knew he wasn't going crazy when he saw the remnants of the home, standing crudely at the top of a hill, mostly burnt and sitting as a reminder of what once was. They sped to a gallop to approach the scene, and it seemed that it had burned awhile and died out before engulfing the entire estate; the outer walls were somewhat intact, but it was very possible that the inside had been gutted by the flames.

"You think any of that's salvagable? Worth lookin at in there?" Frank asked.

"Nah, leave it to the bugs. They're probably hungrier than we are. You remember Old Man Carruthers' barn?"

"What, the old barn on Carruthers' land?"

"Naw, the new barn that the old man built."

"He built it?"

"No, he's an old man, he got his sons to build it, the little Carrutherses. Anyhoo, he torched it when he thunk cholera took his swine. That shit's all gone now, it don't take long for places like this to go back to God piece by piece. Oh, back in Italy, we had this-"

Everything stopped. Everything in the entire world stopped moving, talking, singing, and existing as Frank noticed a body swinging from a large tree.

"Holy dogshit! Preston!"

Frank swung himself off of his horse and darted toward the tree where a pale man had been hanging for God knows how long. He was strung up high enough that Frank couldn't reach the rope with his knife, and looked back to Preston for help when there was nothing worth standing on nearby.

"Preston! Scattergun!"

From his rucksack, Preston retrieved his brand-new Spencer shotgun, the first pump-action design of its kind. The Spencer Firearms Company had brought the concept of tube-fed repeater technology to shotgun dimensions, and now had sold a killing for the new age of warfare and caravan/personal protection. He tossed this amalgamation of steel and wood into Frank's arms, who inspected it for preparation to fire.

"Pull the slide back!"

Frank did so, and observed the chamber as a hefty CLUK resounded from its action.

"Now pull it forward and fire!"

Frank did so, locking a shell inside, and pointed it up to the coiled rope on the branch. Frank squeezed the trigger quickly, and the weapon bucked in his arms as the familiar, sudden pop of a shotgun shell destroyed most of the branch and obliterated the rope. The body fell quickly to the dirt, and Frank wondered why he hadn't waited for Preston to stand underneath the body to catch it. The man lay there, and Frank began studying his countenance, trying to find any signs of life out of the goodness of his heart. He dropped the gun and ran to the side of the body, trying to assess things physically, Preston finally having caught up and kneeling on the opposite side.

"I think we're too late."

Preston signed the crucifix across his chest as he confirmed it with his own eyes.

"He been dead awhile now. Not too much awhile, though; nothing's been pecking at him yet. He's a fresh body. This must've happened late yesterday." Preston answered.

"Well damn, we so close to this place, how didn't we know this was happening?"

"Acoustics is weird, pard, 'member when we fought with them Missouri boys at Wilson's Creek in Missouri? Didn't hear a Goddamn thing from the rally point at that cabin, you remember?"

"Yeah."

"They says the sounds of the artillery and muskets was bouncin off the hills and such, and that's why we didn't know they was fightin over that cornfield until bloody men came lookin for help."

"Yeah, the sounds probably got bounced around this place. Lookit all the hills there, Preston, and all around," Indeed, the man's land was quite worthy of a painting from Europe; hills curved around other hills like waves fighting each other in a Colorado lake, the specific greenness of it all resonating exactly what state it belonged to through its colors.

"This ain't right, Frank, somebody strung him up for a reason now,"

"You're right, Preston, men who don't bury other men are looking to say something to people they don't know. And I do not know this man."

They knelt in silence, perhaps in reverence that they had set aside in the heat of the supposed emergency, considering it all.

"Well, we already done shot him down, least we can do is put him in a hole."

"Hell of a lot more than Cooper got."

"Yeah. Cooper."

The next 40 minutes were spent digging up dirt underneath the man's tree. The age of the men's bones had slowed down their pace considerably, which they had discussed for most of the time they spent working the grave. They ruminated about digging up mountains at Petersburg in half the time they'd already spent getting two feet under, and eventually settled at 4 and a half. They gave the man the honors that they were able to give, being respectful what was left of his existence. They piled on the dirt and formed a cross out of the branch that had eventually come off of the tree, having swelled and snapped and hung during their time there. The branch was wide enough that a man could write his name if they knew him, and the mound of dirt, that crude grave, added one more roll to the man's already-beautiful landscape. Frank and Preston said a prayer each for him and, as they did every night before falling asleep, asked for protection from such fates for themselves. Preston seemed transfixed by the entire event;

"Come on, pard, we've gotta move."

Preston, not wanting to show weakness or vulnerability, turned to Frank with a straight face.

"You know, I don't appreciate you throwing my new shotgun on the ground like that."

"Well, I don't appreciate you farting on the campfire when I'm getting ready to cook."

"You did it first."

"When I was a child. Are you a child?"

"I'm old enough to kick your ass."

"You're old enough to be growing moss on your balls."

"I get more hoochie now than you've ever had, Grampa."

"Hooch, not hoochie. You get hooch, because you're a lousy old drunk."

"Yup."

==

It was just after one o'clock when the horses Tornado and Leonardo carried their riders onto the streets of Fort Trinity, a dusty place that made them feel sad. It wasn't the condition of the town, nor the people or things in it, but the atmosphere was just so that Frank and Preston both felt waves of unhappy air seeping up from the dirt beneath their hanging boots. This feeling rang inside them, like this place was not treating its people well; even the buildings seemed to bring the people down. Somehow, through the cheerless situation, Preston found it fascinating. Perhaps it was all their own doing; perhaps, in their minds, they were not happy to see another town, another pocket of society that they were never truly a part of. There was a reason that their forebearers sought the specific silence of Colorado's mountains, and perhaps they had never been connected to cities in the firstplace. Maybe, just maybe, they thought that the road would keep going, and they would travel forever on the road. They would never have to see another person or road, another vice or sin, another structure or trough; maybe they'd hoped that they would die before they would get there.

The truth escaped the both of them; it transcended their existence, just like the cave exceeded Frank's body, and left them with a bigger and bigger hole every time they talked to a bartender or stepped inside a general store. Preston knew he didn't belong there, but the entire reason he came was because he didn't belong in his home, either. Maybe there was something worth finding in Fort Trinity; until they found out what happened to Frank's brother, he promised himself right there, on that road marked 'MAIN ST.', that he would actively find the place he belonged. God brought him there, just like God took him to New England and brought him back to Colorado. He hadn't explored Texas properly; surely there was something that could amuse his wanderlust hidden in the alleys or beyond the bricks and mortar. Frank, too, felt that he had something hidden in this town that was meant to complete him, but whatever it was, he had to find it. 'Fortune favors the bold,' Frank remembered from the Aeneid, one of his children's favorite books. It was spoken by the bad guy of the story, Titius, before he faced total annihilation by Aeneas' Trojans. Although this exact literary connection did not favor Frank's bold want, he was not going to stand inside the cave and wait to be eaten by coyotes. He had to keep making progress.

"Well, what the hell do we do now?"

Frank looked around the buildings, finding the first one with watering troughs for horses. The front sign read 'LUCKY SEVEN', and it was the prettiest building they'd seen since the church in El Paso. It was nice and big, and it seemed that this place was the reason for the lack of life in the immediate area. Frank nodded toward it and led his horse to the trough at the front; there was no doubt that their horses were thirsty, and chances were that Preston, with his thick German blood, was also thirsty.

"You wanna see about gettin drunk, pard?"

"That sounds just delightful." Preston replied with a grin, bringing his own horse beside Frank's and dismounting quickly. They stretched for a moment as they slapped the reins around the front posts behind the troughs, and slowly jumbled through the front doors and into the building. The place was bustling and busy; it made both men uncomfortable. There were opportunities to gamble across every foot of the space of that building, to which Frank and Preston promptly ignored and began walking toward the bar. Suddenly, Frank stopped and turned Preston to him.

"I'm gonna stand outside for a little bit. You stay civil in here, aight pard?"

"I'm a civil man; you just worry about getting your fresh air. Imma get some mugs and sit the hell down; my rear's rawer than that rash you got in Missouri. Come see me when you're done." Preston said as he began scooting toward the bar. "Howdy, pard," Preston said to the bartender, tipping his battered Union-issue kepi to the man. "I need a couple glasses of beer, and I also gotta pay you for our horses,"

Frank walked outside and tried observing the street, trying to pay attention to any townsfolk that might be around. He didn't know where to start in looking for his brother as he stretched his muscles and soothed his aching hips, thighs, and lower back. He was finally at his destination, and as he looked out on the street, he hoped to see Rex strolling by casually, as though on his way to church or to get groceries, and all he could do was stare as Fort Trinity stared back at him.

Lydia and Doc McCallister

Lydia woke to the smell of prairie flowers.

Sitting up slowly, she braced herself on her elbows, her brow furrowed as she squinted through the darkness of her room towards her night-stand. Sitting in a small, earthenware jar, was a collection of some of her favorite flowers, butter yellow and white. Resting against the base of the jar was a note, one addressed to her in her father’s elegant script. She smiled, rolling on her side and pulling the dresser drawer open to retrieve a match, before striking it against the table surface and lighting the taper behind the jar.

With a quick wave of her hand the match was extinguished, and she plucked the note from the table, slid it open with her thumb, then sat back against her goose-down pillow to read what it said.

My Dearest Lydia,
On this day, sixteen years ago, I had the privilege of meeting you for the very first time. Back then I was a foolish young fellow who didn’t know how to be a father, but I was eager to be the best that I possibly could be. I think I am still learning, but I hope it is fair to say that I have tried my hardest. Every day I look at you and see your mother, the good traits she’s put into you, but one of the things I have come to realize is that you are not your mother. You are Lydia, perfect and beautiful as you are. I hope today is a blessed day for you, my precious child. Each day I am allowed to know you is counted as a blessing for me, and I’m proud to call you my daughter.

Happy Birthday, Dear One.
Papa

Lydia’s eyes burned, but she was smiling wide, her cornflower blue eyes blinking rapidly to dispel the tears that threatened to roll down her cheeks. She felt a lightness in her heart, a pleasure that always filled her when her father spoke such tender words meant only for her. Doc McCallister was a hard man. He had to be in a place like Ft. Trinity. But she got to see him when he wasn’t putting on what he called his ‘Armor of God’. She got to see him smile, laugh, even cry.

Replacing the note reverently on her night-stand, she kicked back the sheets and swung her legs over the side of the mattress, her nightgown brushing her ankles as she stood, picked up the taper, and swept over to the closet. Her mornings generally began with setting up the Twister, the saloon she and her father owned, for business. That meant dressing in slacks and a roughed-up tunic, fetching a bucket of water from the well behind their establishment, and mopping the floors, setting tables, dusting when needed, and making sure they had enough of everything they would need.

Setting the taper on the floor, she discarded the nightgown, dressing in the tunic and breeches before slipping her feet into the soft, leather-soled boots she’d inherited as a hand-me down from one of her old neighbors. She and her father hadn’t always lived in Texas, above a saloon. They’d made their home out in the prairies of Wisconsin for several years, until the risk of tornadoes and Indians (and her father’s call to service) had the family moving back towards more civilized places. Her mother had come down with an awful illness not long before moving to Ft. Trinity, but in spite of Doc’s medical expertise, they couldn’t afford the medication her mother needed.

So she had died.

Lydia paused, grabbing the taper and walking to her looking glass, distorted and smudged from decades worth of abuse. She’d always been called a pretty girl, but the ladies in town often said that she ruined her looks by cutting her straw-colored hair short, and dressing in boy’s clothes while working in the saloon. When she approached her father with her concerns, he’d simply said:

“Now listen here, little miss. When I tell you that you are beautiful, do you believe me?”

She’d looked into his eyes and nodded, straightening like the adult she was trying so hard to be.

“Those women talk and prattle on all day because they have nothing better to do. You need to show them that their words don’t matter. You know who you are. You don’t need anyone ‘cept the Lord to define you. He thinks you are beautiful too, and loves you far more than I. You understand?”

He had hugged her then, kissing the top of her head like he always did when she was upset. From that day forward she purposed not to let herself worry about what others thought, and in the end, she had been happier for it.

“Yer sixteen today.” She said to herself with a satisfied smile. “No more messin’ around, Miss McCallister.”

On quiet footsteps, she took the candle and walked out of her room, making her way through the quiet upstairs corridors like a shadow. It was likely that Doc wasn’t sleeping. He often woke before dawn to do his Bible studies, and if he’d already placed the flowers and the note on her bedside table, then she was sure he’d be awake now. But there was no light coming from beneath his door. Perhaps he was downstairs already?

She went to the door at the top of the stairs, removing the locks her father kept in place (to keep out the late-nighters who had broken in after hours), and padded down the creaky staircase to the store-room below. Liquors and various other supplies glowed odd colors as she passed beneath them with her taper, and she had to wave away the occasional spider’s web before emerging behind the bar counter her father served at.

The establishment was a humble one, with a few round tables and a handful of booths lined up against the walls. The windows were all curtained, but if they had been opened, they’d look out over the Main street of Ft. Trinity. A wraparound porch embraced the building, with rocking chairs, spittoons, and troughs for horses placed in various locations. This was meant to be a traveler’s saloon, for simply coming to rest and have a drink.

Lately though, since the Lucky Seven had picked up business, the Twister had steadily been losing theirs. They had no gambling tables, no excess in finery, just good liquor, and a pretty steady stream of customers who were good at heart too. More and more people were going into debt, which meant less money coming into Doc’s business.

But he refused to borrow money. Said he’d much rather live on the streets than be indebted to any man. Lydia agreed.

She grabbed a wooden pail from behind the counter, marching across the customer’s lounge and throwing the locks before stepping outside. Warm, dry desert air met her nose, drying her mouth and causing her to squint. Everything in this town always seemed to be covered in a layer of dust, even at night.

She glanced around to make sure no one suspicious was outside, then ran for the well behind the building. Predawn sky blanketed the town, the dark, inky blackness now fringed with the grey haze of early morning. Stars disappeared as the moon dipped below the horizon, and off in the distance Coyotes sang a wistful goodbye.

It took her more pumps than usual to bring up the cold water, and when she did, she used it to splash at her face, the back of her neck, goosebumps running down her arms as the water slipped down her back and chest.

She grabbed the bucket, being careful not to slosh it too much as she made her way back into the building, setting it off to the side before going to retrieve a mop from the store room.

--

It was almost two hours later when she finished mopping and setting up the tables the way her father had always liked them to be. So when he appeared at last behind the counter, dressed in slacks, rolled-up shirt sleeves, and a leather vest, she looked ready to drop.

The windows were all open, letting in the sunlight that had finally begun to bathe the town. The place looked practically spotless. Doc came around the counter, walking over to pull Lydia hard against him, and kissed the top of her head.

“Did you get my present?” he asked her. She smiled, nodding and stepping back so she could go up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“Yessir. The flowers are pretty.”

He smiled down at her, his eyes matching hers. “Well, I got something else for yah. It’s upstairs in yer room if you’d like to go take a look.”

Lydia was confused. “But..the saloon..”

“I’m gunna run it today.” He told her. “You can go on out and get yourself somethin’ you like. But,” he lifted a brow, “You need to promise you’ll be careful.”

She was stunned. If there was something her father truly hated, it would be her walking around town unaccompanied. “You sure, Papa?”

“Sure I’m sure!” he said cheerfully. “Now go on upstairs. I’ll be waitin for yah down here.”

Lydia smiled, racing up the stairs and plowing back into her bedroom where, hung up on the closet door, was the loveliest dress she’d ever seen in her life. Blush pink, with short sleeves and a rounded neckline. The fabric was soft to the touch, delicate, like silk or some other expensive fabric. She clapped a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out in excitement, then turned to shut her door, immediately washing up with her basin and pitcher, one that she’d inherited from her mother.

The dress fit like a glove, practically weightless. She looked at herself in the glass and couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

She immediately went and grabbed a sprig of the white prairie blossom, sticking it behind her hair before rushing back down the stairs, her soft-sole boots peeking out from underneath the pink fabric.

“Papa!” she shouted. She could only hear him laughing in response. She ran to him, and he swept her up in a bear hug, kissing her cheek again before setting her down. He regarded her seriously, touching the flower in her hair tenderly before standing back and holding out a small coin-purse for her to carry.

“You look like a young woman, if I do say so myself, Miss McCallister.” His eyes twinkled.

Lydia beamed.

“Now, be careful where you spend that. And don’t go near gambling tables, and if I hear tale of you having even one drop of liquor..”

“Papa,” Lydia said quietly. “I promise to act like the Christian you raised me to be. Is that fair?”

He sighed, laughing more to himself. “That’s fair.”

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

The shops were opening now, and there was more traffic walking up and down the streets of Ft. Trinity. While she pretended not to notice, she couldn’t help but recognize that there was more than one pair of eyes trained on her as she walked out of the Twister, and on down the street with her shoulders squared and her head held high.

She occasionally caught glimpses of herself in the glass at the front of the other shops, and had to pause. For one sobering moment, she wondered about the one thing, the one person who would have made this day even more perfect.

Tall and lean, dark hair and equally dark eyes, his hand at her elbow, having to bend to place a chaste kiss on her cheek…

She closed her eyes, turning away from the glass, and continued to walk down the street.

Up ahead, on the corner of Main Street and Trinity Square, sat the Lucky Seven. Even though she’d seen it dozens of times before, it had never failed to cause her to pause in her steps to appreciate the embellishments that made the building as popular as it was. She was suddenly seized with an idea. Perhaps she could go inside? See what it looked like? Maybe bring back ideas to help her and Doc make the Twister into something more enjoyable?

She’d steer clear of the gambling tables like she’d promised, and she wouldn’t drink. She’d just go in to look.

Finding new purpose, she quickened her steps, glancing both ways before crossing the dusty intersection and making her way towards the entrance of the Lucky Seven. Standing off to the left, with a faraway look to his eyes, was a man that Lydia didn’t recognize.

This wasn’t unusual. Many people came and went through Ft. Trinity, but the man was a dusty sort of fellow, one accustomed to traveling. Her interest was immediately taken as her steps slowed, and she paused to regard him with one of her soft, polite smiles.

“Mornin’ sir.” She said to Frank Gregory. “You lookin for someone?”

“There’s a whole lots’a folk runnin’ talk about Stetz. Don’t think there’s a soul this side’a Abilene don’t know about it already,” one of the gangsters said, scratching his scraggly and unkempt beard as he stood at the far end of the upper room of the Lucky Sevens casino. “Reckon that the ol’ sheriff’ll be around before sunset askin’ questions, doncha?”

Leaning back in the hand-tacked chair behind the desk at the back of the room, George Ramsey tapped his fingers together and mused before finally responding.

“In that case, maybe we’d best remind our fine keepers of the peace who is paying them to so nobly serve our community,” the ringleader spoke, edging his posture in the chair until he came to lean over the desk, including a proposed bill of sale for the Stetz land. Now that the house was nothing more than a frame of rubble and the husband was well on his way to his Maker, the offer of protection and a roof over her head should be more than enough to convince the woman to sign over the land.

One step closer.

“Go and tell the cashiers to extend the credit line to the sheriff. Double what he’s taking right now. And for god’s sake, go get yourself cleaned up,” the “Gentleman” said, tossing a small pouch at the man across the room. “That should be enough to find some woman in this town willing to touch you.”

Ramsey frowned as the man left. What he really needed was some new talent, fresh blood to breathe life into the Lucky Sevens. Someone young, with some ambition and just the right amount of arrogance to think that someday the empire would be their own. Ramsey knew it was time to start looking for a new protégé.

Counting the money for a second time, Ana gave a satisfied nod before wrapping a band around the wad of cash, letting out a small sigh she placed it to the side for Ramsey, it was his share of the profits, 30% of her weekly intake, she would have most certainly complained about this high percentage if it wasn't for the measly fact that 'the palace' would not be standing here today if it wasn't for George Ramsey's investment into her business venture. Placing the two piles of money into separate carpet bags, she decided now would be the best time to run her errands before her place opened for the evening.

Walking out into the glorious sunshine brought a slight smile to her face, walking down the boardwalk she bid good day to familiar faces as she past, before stopping outside her destination with a slight knot in stomach, quickly checking her appearance in the reflective glass before she walked inside. Passing one of his gangsters on the way up the stairs she quickly stuck her nose up at the vile creature before carrying on up.

With a shaky hand she rapped lightly on Ramsey's door, waiting for him to beckon her in.