Chapter One: A Gun And A Prayer

Sunlight cascaded over the weathered town as the women of Redemption prayed for a savior. As the door to the local saloon burst open with a resounding echo, the sound of boot heels on the old wooden boards of the walkway were measured and sure.

The word went up, rifling through the crowd of fevered observers of the impending showdown as a man of God and virtue faced the embodiment of pure evil.

I edged my way forward, past the rough cowboys and the dusty Mexicans lining the main street that morning. Across from me was the saloon. All eyes were on the man who stood at the top of the steps.

He was a man of magnificent proportions, with close clipped, red-brown beard, handsome, stern features, and a steely green eye, whose penetrating glance might have pierced a three-inch plank.

The young Mexican senorita next to me fingered her rosary beads, her moist lips moving in silent entreaty to the Lord.

Was this man sent to her as an avenging angel? Would he exact a deep and mortal payment from the evil entity who gripped the town's fate hard in his mean fists?

I would soon find out.

Notwithstanding my own reason for being in the town of Redemption, I was not eager to be on the brink of what was about to take place before me. I would not turn away from bearing witness, though, for I had made my way into the Arizona desert on the trail of this most extraordinary and deeply mysterious outlaw.

Yes, the outlaw standing at the top of the saloon's entry stairs was none other than the hoped-for savior of Redemption's good folk. The tales of his exploits had burst forth from this furnace-scorched land of sand and brought me, a stranger from St. Louis, to travel in his footsteps, seeking to discover the identity and past of this outlaw.

Let me go on to enlighten you as to why this singular man drew me to these forbidden landscapes when it seems our West is fairly overrun with outlaws. It is because of the turns of his life. He rode out of a past of no one's knowing and became one of the most feared men riding in the fearsome John Herod Gang. Young though he was, his ruthlessness and skills with a handgun had already become legend before Herod elevated this outlaw to be his right-hand man.

But in the ways of bad men, the two turned one on the other. Leaving the outlaw for dead, Herod returned to his gang before lighting out to find the town of Redemption, where he took over in order to rule as Lord Supreme.

His rule was a miserable one.

The town's citizens were forced to cede all lands, all buildings, all property to Herod and his gang. Herod extracted regular payments of "taxes" from the people, forcing them to slowly but surely give to Herod every cent and every possession.

When the people's coffers began to dry up, Herod extracted terrible penalties, demanding payment in slave labor. He put the women to work as whores, offering their bodies to his men and other rough strangers the town began to attract as word soon spread among felons and desperados of the safe harbor they would find in the once-peaceful Redemption.

Unbeknownst to John Herod, though, the outlaw he'd turned on and left for dead survived the terrible injuries inflicted by his former friend. Nursed back to health by a Catholic missionary, when the outlaw healed, he changed his ways and turned his life to the Lord, vowing to leave behind the hatred and evil of his younger days.

One day, word reached a desolate mission tending to the forgotten people near Sonora of the horrors of Herod's tyranny over Redemption. On that day, the mission's priest heard another calling from his Lord as he learned of the injustices and murders even then being committed by his former gang and their terrifying leader John Herod.

The very next morning, the outlaw-turned-priest climbed into the saddle and rode hard for Redemption. Two days found him within sight of his quarry. A chance meeting with the town's doctor and his beautiful daughter Ellen happened when the outlaw passed them as they tended to the grave of Ellen's dear brother, an early victim of Herod's gun.

As he listened to Ellen's tender words of loss, the outlaw promised to end the town's suffering. Ellen and her father urged him to ride on, to flee these lands while he could. Once inside Redemption, he was told, there was no leaving without Herod's permission. If one tried, he would send his men to hunt you down, they told the outlaw. No one ever survived.

As an example of his depraved disregard for human life, they revealed that Herod had even that day begun a brutal contest pitting man against man. This ruthless gun battle contest would have only one winner, to whom Herod had promised a fortune in bonds and safe passage from the town with his winnings. All others would forfeit their lives as the only way to advance in the rounds was to kill your opponent in a gun battle in the town's main square.

Gun fighters from three states had come to take up the challenge, so great was the fortune that risking their lives was not an impediment.

The outlaw listened to the details of the shooting contest. He smiled as Ellen placed her small hand on his chest and pled with him to ride on. He told her that fate was about to turn in the town of Redemption. He bade her and her father to have faith that all was not yet lost.

Her limpid eyes were impossible for him to forget as he walked to his horse and began to make his way into Redemption. The outlaw turned back just before nearing the first building of the town. He gazed back in the direction of Ellen, forever after altered by the girl's beauty and innocence. He steeled his resolve, remembering his priestly vows of chastity.

However, as he turned back to face Redemption, he realized that by forsaking his priestly vows to never take another's life, he would never again be able to wear the priest's collar if he continued on his quest.

The outlaw knew he had no choice. He believed his God had sent him to Redemption to make right what had once gone so wrong in his own life, for by ending John Herod's life, he would end not only the current reign of terror but save countless other innocent lives that Herod or his gang would take during future bank robberies.

Arriving at the saloon, the outlaw slowly got off his horse, tethering the animal to the hitching post. He entered through the swinging wooden doors, his eyes scanning the rough room filled with coarse men.

He had arrived just in time, he learned. For that very hour, all the gunfighters who had come for the contest were calling out their names to be entered into the roster of deadly contestants.

The outlaw smiled once more. It was not an idle boast or braggadocio on this man's part that he alone in this room was the one gunman capable of winning any quick-draw and deadly-aim contest in the West.

"Any other brave men out there?" called out a voice that the outlaw knew well. "We have two slots left. Tell you what-if just one more of you signs up for this contest, then by God, I'll put my name up, too. Wouldn't you all like to face me in this contest? You know you would-I'll sweeten the pot even more, how's that? If one more signs up and I enter, then if one of you does beat me, you'll get my fortune and my town. Now, surely there's one among you who wants to ride away with enough money to last a lifetime? One among you with the courage and intelligence to see this contest through?"

A low murmur went up but no one offered up another name. It was not that they were not tempted by Herod's riches, but all there knew that facing Herod would be more dangerous than facing any other man alive. Those already in the contest were desperately hoping that no fool went and entered in that final slot! If no one entered, then Herod would not be in the contest. It was their only chance.

When there appeared to be no takers, the contestants began to relax.

Until one calm voice rose loud and careful to say, "I'll take that challenge."

Herod rose to his toes, peering over the men between him and whoever had just spoken. The voice sounded very familiar to Herod but he could not quite place it. It made him edgy for he knew every gunfighter who'd ridden in-and he knew whoever this person was, he was not among those Herod was expecting.

"And what's your name, stranger? Speak up now so I can put you in the contest!"

The outlaw walked forward a few paces. The other men near him were looking at him, curious. They stepped back to let him advance closer to the bar and Herod.

"Just write Wade up there. That'll do," the outlaw said.

"Wade?" said one of Herod's gang, suddenly pale as he recognized the voice. He rushed through the crowded saloon and suddenly burst past two men until he was face-to-face with the outlaw. He called out to his boss, saying, "Mr. Herod! It's him! It's him all right."

The outlaw brushed past the gang member, walking slowly but surely through the parting waves of men until at last he was able to clearly see his former friend, John Herod.

"I don't believe it," Herod said, his shock evident on his face even though he swiftly tried to hide it with a large grin. "Well, if it isn't the Prodigal Son. We'd given you up for dead, boy."

"Never was a boy, John. Never was your son, neither."

"Why are you here, boy?"

"I'm here to stop you, John."

Herod laughed, pretending amusement that he did not feel. "You're gonna stop me? You really think you can do that?"

"If you let me enter this contest, John, we both know I'm the only man standing you can't beat at this. You always wanted to face me in a fair gun battle, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did," Herod said softly, now coming closer to the outlaw to look into his steady green eyes. Then he turned and addressed the old man standing atop the bar to chalk in the names of the contestants on the board. "Sign 'em up!"

"What name do I put, Mr. Herod?" the old man asked.

Herod smiled as he looked out over the crowd. "Put his name up there, big and bold. His name's Cort Wade."

By the time I arrived in Redemption, following this mysterious man, the contest had gone through four flights. Thirty men had already fought and died. Only two men were left standing.

One was John Herod.

The other was Redemption's hero: Cort Wade, the outlaw turned priest whom I'd traveled all this way to meet so I could learn his secret past.

The man reading from the dime novel titled The Outlaw's Choice. A Story of the Man Who Saved Redemption paused as he reached the end of the first chapter. The faces of those listening to his reading were all turned toward him, their eyes expectant and curious.

There was a moment of silence as the chapter sunk in a bit.

"Say, Boss, that guy's got the same name as you," Charlie said, his high voice rising like a bell above the low murmurs from men gathered around the saloon table.

"How about that?" Ben Wade said in a tone so soft that anyone who didn't know him as well as his gang did might have missed the lethal menace floating within its more cultured cadence. "Imagine there being a real, genuine hero in the Wade family?"

Wade turned the book over in his hands as the men's voices rose to discuss this possibility and to wonder aloud at the fact the hero of this dime novel shared a last name with their boss. His fingers stroked over the dull orange paper cover, outlining the etching on the cover that showed the hero, Cort Wade, with a six gun in each hand, his arms crossed over his chest. Cort's face stared at Ben. Ben's left eyebrow rose as he considered this face before him on the skinny novel's cover.

Truth was, it was that very face that made Ben notice the dime novel as he and Charlie had strolled about the mercantile of this dusty railroad town in New Mexico. Something had seemed familiar, even if the face was hard to place at first. Surely it was something of a surprise, even to Ben, that he'd noticed the paper book. Several of his men loved the serials and often had one in their saddlebags for him to read to the group on bored nights away from towns or cities where other forms of entertainment would have called to them.

When was the last time he'd seen that face, Ben mused now? He tried to picture it, a face so much younger than the one on the pulp book's cover that they could have been two different people.

"Not only do you got a hero in your family, Boss," said Tucker in his slow drawl, "but looks like you got a rich man, too."

"How you figure that?" Charlie asked.

"Well, I figure the only way this story about the outlaw's been written is because Cort won that gun battle with Herod. And if that's true, then Cort Wade got all of Herod's money. For sure he'd be a rich man now."

The gang turned almost as a one toward their boss. Ben Wade smiled benignly at them for he had already reached that very conclusion when he'd first picked the book up from the mercantile's shelf to scan the chapter headings. Not only did he know Cort Wade had won the gun battle, but he knew just where to find him.

"Boys, drink up because tomorrow, we're heading for a little redemption of our own-courtesy of my cousin, Cort Wade. Think it's time we had a little family reunion, don't you?"

Cort was catching a much needed nap in his office, feet up on his desk, chair leaning back on two legs, head lolling against the wall, a hat covering his head to block out the strong sunlight streaming in from the street outside. He had been up since dawn, assisting in off-loading heavy equipment off the early morning train that was needed for drilling a deeper well now that the town was growing. Then he had been trying to catch up with the paperwork that had been lying around unattended for weeks.  It hadn't taken him long to give up on that, his eyes already closing as he nodded off over his mail.

"You there, Sheriff?" The door to his office burst open, causing him jump to attention, the chair slamming down and his hat tumbling onto his desk. He tried to give a semblance of being wide awake but his visitor was not fooled. "Lord, did I wake you? I'm so sorry, Cort...I'll come back later..." She turned back towards the door.

"No, honey, it's okay...I was just closing my eyes..."

Mattie Silk came back over and sat down on a chair facing him, smiling softly. "You work too hard, Cort. It's not so long since you recovered...do you ever take time for yourself...?"

Cort flashed her one of his looks. Mattie was sure he hadn't the least idea of the effect it had on a woman. "You don't worry about me now, girl. I'm doing just fine. So what's going on? You shut up the shop today?"

She shook her head. "It's lunchtime. I brought you some bread and cheese." Reaching down to the basket on her knees, she handed him a neatly folded checkered napkin. Inside was a thick sandwich; Cort gratefully tucked into it. Breakfast had been hours ago. Mattie poured him a glass of milk from a canister she had carried across and set an apple before him. This was becoming a habit of hers. Looking after Cort. Like he'd taken care of her ever since she'd lost Fee.

It had hit her hard when her young husband of only a few hours had died in her arms on the dusty streets of Redemption. Mattie wasn't sure if what she has felt for him had been love, mostly because she didn't really know how love was supposed to feel. No one had loved her as far back as she could remember. Her Mother had died giving birth to her; she'd been brought up by her aunt who'd always resented the extra mouth to feed. God alone knew what had become of her father who had been long gone even before she'd been born.

The Kid had told her he loved her - but then the Kid had fallen in and out of love ten times a day. But he had thought her good enough to marry and that had to mean something special, Mattie had told herself. She had known a lot of men but he had been the only one who had made her feel anything when he had loved her. The Kid was naïve and inexperienced but what he lacked in skill he had sure made up for in enthusiasm and spirit. There had been a lot of laughter and easy loving. To young Mattie, that had seemed like heaven.

When the Kid was killed, it was like the door had been shut in her face for good. Mattie knew you only got one chance in life and for a used whore like her, even one chance was more luck than you expected. Losing Fee would send her inevitably back to the cathouse and that would be it. Or so she had thought. Her tears on that street had been as much for herself and her dreams that were bleeding away into that dirt along with Fee's young life. "I don't want to die...!" he had gasped out. Mattie thought he was the lucky one. She hadn't much wanted to go on alone now she had tasted that other life.

But Cort had changed all that. After Herod's death and the town had been blown up, she had been distraught, still grieving over The Kid. Cort became the sheriff and even though he'd been injured, he hadn't forgotten about her. The Kid had a bit of money kept by and a few possessions. Cort had made sure she got them as his widow; it was enough to keep her off the streets for a while. Later, when she had begun to get back on her feet, he had come to her with a proposition; they needed a dress shop for the ladies of the town if they were going to attract families and decent folk back. If he raised some money to start her off, would she consider running it?

Mattie had no idea why he had thought her capable of such a thing. She could hardly read and write and had never done anything but keep house and whore. He had replied she always looked so pretty. That meant she knew about style. It had been the first compliment she had ever received from anyone who wasn't just saying it to get something from her. Mattie had cherished it and on a whim decided that if Cort thought her worth the investment then she was going to prove him right. She would be a decent woman, honor The Kid's choice and make a life for herself.

"Well, you sure wolfed that down, Sheriff. You looking after yourself properly? You need a woman to cook for you," Mattie began hesitantly. It was six months since the Kid had died. Time enough for mourning to end.

Cort smiled over. "I'm doing just fine. All the ladies seem to think I need looking after. I get plates of food all the time..." Mattie hid her disappointment. Cort was always so nice to her, polite and gentlemanly, but he never seemed to show any signs that he might be interested. Yet, he always singled her out for special attention. That had to mean something? Or was he still hankering after Ellen? Everyone knew what had happened between them. Cort hadn't acted like a preacher with her.

"Well, you just come over any time, Sheriff. I always cook more than enough for two...I make a tasty stew and my biscuits are real nice..."

"I'll bear that in mind. How you doing these days? Business working out?"

"It's doing fine. I'm getting the hang of the accounts now just like you showed me and I'm practicing my reading and writing at nights. I'm getting real good. I read a whole book the other day. Fact is, I wanted to show it to you...."

"Me? You trying to improve my education now as well as fatten me up, Mattie?" he teased. "What's this book about then? I never read anything but these goddamned official mails and the Good Book..."

Mattie slipped the dime novel out of her pocket and rested it on the table between them. "It's about you. That's why I wanted to show it to you."

Cort sat up sharply, the smile leaving his face. "About me? What d'you mean by that?" He picked up the novelette and flicked through it, stopping to study the lurid front cover. He knew what it was and wasn't entirely surprised. These dime novels were all over the place, turning bad men and criminal behavior into heroes and adventures. People back east just couldn't get enough of the horseshit about the so called Wild West. They all got a shock, though, when they came out to this brave new frontier and found out what the reality of these lawless and godless lands really was.

He threw it down onto the desk but noticed Mattie's crestfallen look. He had hurt her feelings. It hadn't been his intention. Softly he looked across at her, smiling gently. "Say, why don't you read it to me? Show me how good you're getting at your studies...?"

Mattie blushed, shy all of a sudden. "I'm still a bit bad at reading out loud. I get mixed up some..."

"Then the practice will do you good."

"But it's awful long," she argued.

"Then we start it now and maybe you can finish it this evening if I come over after I lock up over here? You can make good on that offer of some stew and biscuits an' all..."

Two spots of high color bloomed in Mattie's cheeks at that. Cort was coming to supper? Maybe he was thinking of taking things further now, too. He had probably just been a gentleman all this time that she had been grieving over her dead boy. But six months was a long time. More so for him than her. He was a man. He needed it. And Mattie still knew a few tricks that would get him going if he gave her half a chance.

"Okay then. Here goes..." She picked up the book opened it at the first page, cleared her throat and began reading in a halting fashion. Cort leaned back in his chair and watched her as he listened. Her sweet voice was a balm to him. For the hundredth time he wondered why he didn't make an approach to this woman. He knew she was interested. To be honest so was he. But he wasn't sure he was ready to give her what she deserved and there was no question of him stringing her along. Mattie was a good woman. Didn't matter how many men had had her. A good woman was still a good woman.

Cort had found himself strangely drawn to this poor girl in the aftermath of the shoot out with Herod. He had never quite figured out why she moved him so much. Before the Kid had died, in those days when he'd been chained up like a dog out on the streets, he had scarcely noticed her. Mattie Silk had been pretty enough, pale skinned and with that pretty red gold curly hair that he had always gone for. She had been like so many other sad girls in whorehouses all over the state. He knew her story even before she had told it to him. It had been written all over her pinched little face.

Abused by her uncle and probably other family members, she had run away and ended up in the only place that would have a fallen angel like Mattie - a cat house where she could be abused some more. He thought she was probably not much more than twenty. By thirty, she would have looked like an old woman.

Cort had observed her weeping over the Kid's body and something in him had snapped. From them on, he had taken it upon himself to keep her safe, as if somehow in her he could right all the wrongs in this town. If he could keep her away from that life of degradation then he just might have done something worthwhile with his time after all - and proved that redemption was possible. Redemption in Redemption. It appealed to him in a way he couldn't quite express.

It was difficult following the thread of Mattie's reading as she stumbled over words and lost the sense of what she was saying several times. He was also finding her beauty distracting him. Mattie had changed since she had been taken out of that den of iniquity and set on the road to a decent life. She had put on some weight, filling out nicely now and losing that sickly pallor. Her skin was glowing from good food, plenty of sleep and regular hours. Her hair, worn nearly in a roll, gleamed like spun gold. He had never really realized at first how pretty she was but now he couldn't take his eyes off her. The creamy white skin below her bonnet ribbons entranced him and he found his eyes tracing the path down to where her small bosom was neatly fitted into her respectable house dress. A passing notion of watching her undress came over him, imagining her naked breasts, small and pert, tipped with rosebud nipples, peaking as he ran his tongue over them and cupped them in his large hands.

Jerking himself back to the present he forced himself to concentrate. He should not be thinking such thoughts about her.

'... A chance meeting with the town's doctor and his beautiful daughter Ellen happened when the outlaw passed them as they tended to the grave of Ellen's dear brother, an early victim of Herod's gun.

As he listened to Ellen's tender words of loss, the outlaw promised to end the town's suffering. Ellen and her father urged him to ride on, to flee these lands while he could. Once inside Redemption, he was told, there was no leaving without Herod's permission...'

"That ain't how it was, Mattie....you were there...Ellen wasn't the doctor's daughter..."

She looked up. "I know that...But it's not important. You can't write about a female gunslinger...no one would believe it. It ain't proper..."

Cort shrugged as she returned to her reading. He knew that these stories were told either as cautionary tales or morality lessons. Good always had to triumph over evil, the heroes and heroines had to be without any character flaws, the bad men unremittingly wicked. Life wasn't like that. Cort knew that from personal experience. It had taken a very bad man like himself to kill an even badder one. A good man wouldn't have gotten out of the door.

'...Her limpid eyes were impossible for him to forget as he walked to his horse and began to make his way into Redemption. The outlaw turned back just before nearing the first building of the town. He gazed back in the direction of Ellen, forever after altered by the girl's beauty and innocence. He steeled his resolve, remembering his priestly vows of chastity...'

Mattie had read this with her voice dropping almost to a whisper, embarrassed when it came down to reminding Cort about his feelings for Ellen. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. She came to a stop. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea? I don't want to remind you of all that..."

"All what?" he snapped.  "Nothing between me and Ellen. It's just another dime novel story..."

Mattie eyed him up. "Everyone knows what happened between you two that night in the whore house. The night they beat you up..."

Cort stared back. "Nothing happened. We talked, is all..."

She smiled. "You had her against a wall, sheriff. They saw. They heard. They got peep holes all over. Anyways, it ain't anything to be ashamed of. Man needs a woman from time to time. She needed you, too. They were bad times. You both saved this town. I'm glad you both had some comfort..."

"Some comfort?" he repeated with a wry laugh. "Not sure that's how I'd describe it. That was back then. Ellen deserves more than playing the shy young maiden in all of this. Without her, none of this would have happened..."

"Cort, they can't write that she wore men's clothes, smoked cigars, drank rye whiskey in a whore house and killed men on the streets...not to mention fucked a priest..."

Cort winced. "You watch your language, Mattie..."

She grinned. "If they wrote that, nobody would buy the damn book! But the story is true. You and her made it come true. You got rid of the bad men and saved us all..."

He sighed deeply. "Saved you all? Maybe. But who's gonna save me and Ellen? We both got sins on our conscience...you ever think about that...?"

But Mattie dispelled his comment with a laugh. "You saved us all. That makes you the savior, Cort. You died and were reborn in Jesus. That's what scripture asks us all to do. Even I know that. You're a good man now. The past died when the old town did. It's a clean start for all of us..."

He didn't argue with her. "Maybe we can go on with this tonight, Mattie? I better get on with my work here..."

Mattie rose, closing the book carefully and marking her place. "Sure thing. I best get back to the shop anyways. See you tonight then, Cort. About six?"

He nodded. "Sounds just fine. And your reading is real fine, too, Mattie. I'm proud of you."

She blushed again but his comment gave her confidence. "There's just one thing I wanted to ask you. They called you Cort Wade in this story? Why? Do you think they just made it up?"

Cort's face settled into a stern frown at the mention of the name. He answered her but it was clear from his voice that this was not a subject that he was prepared to discuss further. "It's my surname. I don't use it anymore..."

"Why not?" Mattie asked.

"I just don't. No reason." Cort stood up and brushed his hand back through his unruly hair, putting on his hat. "If you'll excuse me, Mattie...I'm just off to do my rounds...I'll see you later, huh?" He held open the door as she walked through and then strode off down the street, the name Wade still ringing in his ears. It was years since he had heard anyone mention his family name. It brought an uneasy sensation to him, a sense of foreboding that he couldn't quite put his finger on. It was just a bad memory. He walked faster as if he could shake it all from him.

But some things just can't be escaped. The past was one of them. 

There are many routes one could choose to take if traveling from Alamogordo, New Mexico to Tucson, Arizona. If you opted to take one of the more heavily traveled trails, right away you would choose whether you went the northern and most direct route through Las Cruces or if you dipped south, where you could hook up with the easier Gila Trail in El Paso.

Though Ben Wade headed his gang toward El Paso when they left Alamogordo, it wasn't to catch the Gila Trail.

"Would you have preferred a week on the trail before we even got close to Yuma?" he asked Tucker, seated across from him.

The other man, tall and lumpish, avoided his eyes. Ben knew Tucker would have much preferred taking the most grueling, dangerous riding trail over this method of transportation, no matter how much easier it was on their bodies. Most of his men felt the same way, he knew. It felt unnatural to them considering what they did for a living.

"No, Boss. I'm going whatever way you say to go. You know that. It's just..."

"Yeah, Tucker, I can read you loud and clear."

Charlie looked up from his magazine, quietly observing his boss from beneath the edges of his longish bangs that made him look much younger than he'd ever been. Seemed to Charlie that the Boss was feeling as much on edge as any of them but he was not the kind of man ever shied away from what scared him.

"If you boys will excuse me, I have been told there is a gentleman's game of poker being played in one of the forward cars," Ben said softly. As he rose, his eyes swept over the eight men in his gang who were seated nearby. "And one more reminder: keep a low profile. Charlie, you come check in with me every hour."

He didn't wait on any answers but turned and began walking down the rollicking aisle of the train they rode.

Unlike his men, he was not afraid to ride on a train, not even on the Sunset route-not even with the amount of reward the railroads had on his head for his rather strong fondness for robbing their trains along this very route.

There were several reason he had opted for this-to ride the Sunset train line between El Paso and Tucson. It was faster, for one thing. They would get to Tucson well-rested, for another. Their horses, safe in the corral car, would also be rested for the journey between Tucson and Redemption.

The fact only a man with his particular fortitude and cool daring would choose to hitch a ride that put him in the belly of the enemy was simply the exclamation point to the outbound trip. Who knew but that when they left Redemption, he may book them on a train taking them the rest of the way west on the Sunset route, straight through to San Francisco. Now that would be spitting in the face of fate.

As he began through the door leading between the two cars, the train took another yanking lurch. His hands braced against the sides of the open door. The dry blast of heat from the desert rifled through the open space between the cars. Looking to his left, he watched the red brown rocks and lifeless dirt speed past.

Ben Wade was at home in the desert. It had been a part of him his entire life. Not the easiest childhood but not many people he knew had that luxury. His uncle had taught him the most valuable lesson of all when he was only 13: a man who wanted to do more than just survive should take what he was capable of holding onto. And when other men tried to take it away from you, and they always did, the strong did not relent one inch. No one took from Ben Wade. That was his familial legacy.

He'd thought they were all long gone.

All of the Wades.

He'd not known there was one surviving other than him. He'd long ago heard his cousin Cort had died in Nogales, cut down after trying to rob a bank. Odd to think he was alive, after all this time. Bitter to think that of all of them, it was his cousin who'd survived.

The train smoothed out just enough for him to continue through the first door and across the connection until he could open and enter the door to the next car.

Ben made his way forward, passing families sprawled out over rows of seats. A few nuns were traveling as a group, seated about in the middle of the car. A young Mexican couple huddled silently together, rocking along with the train, their bodies taking comfort from proximity.

As he left the car, he heard children crying and the soft laughter of the nuns behind him.

He was smiling when he stepped through to the next car. That's the very moment he first saw the woman. Had to be in her late 20s. High bosom, slim waist-the deep blue dress could not hide that part of her figure.

She was standing in the aisle, at the last line of seats, facing him when he entered. Her hand was holding on to the seat back to keep from being tossed too hard each time the train yanked left or right.

For a moment, they both paused and considered the other. His eyes were frank, open; looking at an attractive woman. Hers were veiled, wary; looking at a hard man the way experienced women do when they feel vulnerable.

Ben recovered quickly, tipping his hat to her, smiling with focus and charm as he edged past her.

His smile grew deeper as the woman did not lower her eyes during the brief encounter.

A fire in that one, he thought to himself. Just before he left the car, he glanced back and was disappointed to find her nowhere in sight. He'd been so sure she'd be standing there still, watching him, giving him the unmistakable signals of arousal and interest.

The next car was a sleeper, with tidy compartments off the aisle that ran along the left side of the car. Ben idly looked inside the various compartments; an example of his habitual observance of his surroundings. He could have told you exactly which were occupied and which were not with just that one, seemingly-casual walk-through.

The smoker was the final car before the locomotive itself. And it was here he found the card game already in progress.

For a while, he contented himself with a whiskey, a cigar and the slightly higher-class maleness of the smoker. By the time a seat came open at the table, he had so charmed the habitués that it seemed remarkably understood that he would take the seat and join the game.

Mindless hours passed with Ben winning and losing in nearly identical portions. Every hour, Charlie came in to check on his boss, examining the other men in the car and catching the subtle signals Ben gave him.

It was after Charlie's fourth visit that Ben began his winning streak. By the time Charlie came by for his fifth visit to the smoker, Ben was yawning and ready to pack the game in for the night.

The other players protested that he owed them a chance to win their money back. But Ben waved them off, a good natured bit of banter about him taking his luck and knowing when to run away from the chance of losing it with such sharp card players.

When one of the men, a lawyer from New Orleans, rose to block his way from the table, all it took was one subtle move from Charlie to make him understand that though Ben was smiling, this was a dangerous man with back up.

"Here-put this somewhere safe. We'll use it to get a fancy hotel room, live it up a bit before we leave Tucson in the morning," Ben said softly to Charlie as they walked down the aisle of the sleeper car. He handed back the winnings, all in a neat, fat pile of bills.

As they entered the next car, Ben intently scanned the passengers. The corners of his mouth edged up subtly when he saw her again.

The woman leaned back in her seat, her eyes watching the night terrain out the window at her side. 

Ben slowed imperceptivity as he drew even with her row and watched her intently.

When she turned, she looked steadily into his fierce gaze.

And then he was past her, continuing on his way into the next car.

Ben had no sooner settled into an open seat in the midst of his men than he shook his head, sharply impatient. He clicked his teeth in annoyance as he rose stiffly to his feet.

"Damn if I didn't go and leave my lighter in the smoking car," he said in a tight voice.

"I'll go, Boss," Charlie said.

Ben put a big hand on Charlie's shoulder, pressing him down. "You're a good man, Charlie. But this is my doing and I'll be the one taking care of it."

"You want one of us coming with you, Boss? Just in case..."

"In case what? You think one of them's gonna have stolen the lighter?" Ben laughed, running a hand over his tired face. "I'll be back before long. You boys get some rest. Don't wait up on me-I just may have another drink to help me sleep."

He strolled back down the aisle, heading in the direction of the smoker.

But it was the not the smoker where he stopped.

It was the sleeper.

Just before he left the passenger car immediately before the sleeper, he encountered the woman, making her way back from the lavatory facilities tucked into the front corner of the car where her seat was. However it would have happened, he knew she'd be waiting on him to return to her car.

Everyone else in the car was either asleep or occupied with their own concerns. No one noticed how Ben stopped before her as she hesitated at the door to the lavatory. In her hands was a small bag, tied up with flowered ribbons. Her hair was freshly combed. She had dabbed on scent.

He was close enough to her to see each of her eyelashes as she gazed up into his eyes, steady. Her pupils were large, aroused, curious. He edged around her but in doing so, he grazed against her breasts. She did not step back or press herself against the wall to get away from his body.

His head dropped just enough for his nose to brush softly against the side of her hair.

"You smell nice," he whispered.

The train lurched and she pressed in against him, whispering back, "These trains make you feel so dirty if you're not careful and wash up."

"Woman like you should be spending this night in better surroundings than this old car."

"You picked me right out, didn't you?"

"Right out. No missing you, honey."

A child far down the car suddenly set up a howling protest as he fought sleep in the unfamiliar surroundings. The woman glanced back, her eyes sweeping over the car's inhabitants and their closed faces.

"You traveling alone?" Ben asked her, now taking a step away, toward the door that led forward and out of the car.

She stepped toward him even as she was turning back. "No-my sister's along. That's her down there, snoring."

Ben never looked where she indicated with a toss of her hair. He was staring in her eyes instead, a soft smile playing on his lips. His eyebrows rose and he nodded toward the next car. "Why don't we go somewhere we can sit and talk?"

"Talk?"

"If you like."

Inside the sleeper, he reached back for her hand to draw her down the aisle. The conductor was nowhere to be seen; probably busy tending to one of the compartments. Ben opened the door of the first unoccupied compartment and drew the woman in with him. Once inside, he did not turn on any lights.

She seemed to understand the need for this, if they were to keep their presence unknown while they borrowed the tiny space.

The only light streamed in across the vast desert, coming obliquely through the window. She faced the window, drawing near. She watched the land speed by, details impossible to pick up, just the shapes of rocky ridges and rises as the train moved on.

He stood behind her, waiting.

When the train lurched, she lost her balance and he caught her. He did not release her. He pressed into the soft cushion of her buttocks; his hands along her ribs felt the rise and fall of her quickening breathing. He watched her reflection in the dark window before them.

Her eyes were open, unfocused. She licked her lips as her head fell back against his shoulder. She arched her throat, the perfect invitation for his teeth.

He barely heard her gasp when she capitulated without pretense. Taking her hand, he guided her toward the divan and then gentled her atop his lap.

If he had had all night, he would have relished the divinity of her body, fresh and new to his touch, exploring her skin and her reactions until he would have her begging for release.

They did not have all night. Perhaps no more than thirty minutes would be theirs.

His eyes never closed. He watched every movement she made, rising and falling over him, her dress hiked up lewdly. He memorized the heavy sway of her breasts, freed from their covering, as she shivered into her coming, the train's jolting adding unexpected dimensions to the friction of their bodies against each other.

They spoke only in hushed whispers. Once, he caught a look in her eyes as they opened, rimmed with soft tears of frustration as he delayed giving her the release she so desperately sought from him.

Do women ever know what they do to a man when they look at him in a way that cannot hide their arousal, their satisfaction, their yearning for him and only him? When they make a man know blood lust to form an indelible memory within her deepest, most private yearnings?

She was the kind of woman who did not come with a cry or a shout of pleasure. She was the kind who threw her head back, gripped into his biceps, squeezed in around his hips and rode him until she drained every last drop. She was the kind of woman who sweat, soft beads at her throat, chest, face. She was the kind of woman who made his coming a moment of almost unbearably brutal relief.

"What's your name, my beauty?" he asked her just before he opened the compartment door to escort her out into the aisle.

"It doesn't matter," she said, smoothing another wisp of hair into place.

"Does to me."

And for the first time since he'd laid eyes on her, she blushed before his gaze.

"Amanda."

Name fits her, he decided as he was walking down the aisle toward where his men had staked claim to several rows of seats so they could catch some sleep on this night.

Only Charlie was awake.

Ben slipped his body down into one of the open seats and lounged back, tugging his hat over his eyes as he settled easily into slumber, his body wonderfully sluggish now in its post-coital satisfaction.

He drifted off, his nimble mind already thinking ahead to the next few days' journey. They would spend the next night in Tucson before riding for at least two days to reach Redemption.

A movement of visual memories flitted up from his subconscious.

His aunt. Her apron, yellow checked gingham. Watching him through the open doorway as he looked back at her, not knowing how it hurt him to see her worried.

His horse, red brown, feisty. Twitching in anticipation of his touch before he climbed into the saddle.

His uncle, already lengths ahead, his horse's hooves churning up the soft dirt as it started off. The other men in the gang, waiting for them beyond the corral's old gate.

His aunt's younger sister, Martha, running out to grab his little cousin's arm to keep him from following the men as they rode out.

And then Martha waving at him. He'd not mistaken that coy smile, that sly look she gave him. It was meant to be a reminder of what she'd given him the night before when he'd been full of testosterone to be on the brink of joining his uncle's gang, the family business. He'd come to her, unable to sleep, determined to take what she'd seemed to been offering ever since his uncle had announced a week earlier that Ben was now man enough to take his place with the gang.

"Your cooking sure has improved, Mattie. You'd even have fattened up the Kid if you'd fed him like that!" Cort exclaimed as he mopped up the last dregs of stew with a chunk of brown bread and drained his glass of beer. Mattie smiled back, delighted by his compliment. She knew the importance of getting hold of a man where he most appreciated it - his stomach.

But Cort's face promptly fell when he realized that his remark might have seemed a little thoughtless in the circumstances. "Beg pardon, Mattie. I didn't mean to offend you...or bring you any bad memories..."

She shook her head, putting down the empty plates she had been collecting and placing a hand on his back. The ripple of taut muscle beneath his rough shirt sent an immediate shock wave through her. An image of him naked came to her unbidden. She'd been one of those who peeped when he had been in that room with Ellen. The memory of Cort slumped against that wall, his head lolling back and his mouth uttering meaningless sounds as Ellen exposed his manhood and gave him the benefit of her tongue was still with her. Only this time in her head, she was playing Ellen.

"Think nothing of it, Cort. You're right. Fee was the thinnest streak of meat I ever did see. He was just a boy. I know he acted like he was a real tough shooter and all, but inside he was just a scared boy. I was his first, you know? His only one. He used to act like he'd had all the girls in the cathouse, but we knew the truth. It was all talk. But he was shaping up alright, you know? Give him a few more years and he would have been quite a man..."

Cort listened, smiling inwardly. That was the irony of the sad little life and death of Fee Herod, also known as The Kid. He had just been a boy, starved of his father's love, trying any way he could to be acknowledged, swaggering through the world to hide his sense of rejection. The Kid had thought that it was enough to be fast with his hands and to talk it up big. But as Cort well knew,  being able to shoot a row of cans off a wall faster than anyone else you know, is a world away from gunning down a man in the street. Especially if that man happens to be your own flesh and blood.

"...I told you to turn around, kid. Now. And when I say something to you, boy, you jump ..."

Cort froze. His fingers flexed inches away from him holster. The watching men held their breaths. This was the challenge that had been a long time coming. The kid was fast. Faster than them all. But Ben Wade could cut a man down with one look.

"I ain't gonna draw..." Cort had protested.

"You think I give a shit about shooting you in the back?" Ben Wade mocked. "Turn round. Look at me. I'm a tin can. Boys tell me you can draw a gun faster than a rattler can strike. They think I haven't got a chance against you. Maybe they is right. You got the balls for it, cousin? You got the belly for killing...? Let me tell you something. You only get one chance to be first. Then you're second. And then you're dead..."

His voice was soft and mellifluous, insinuating itself into every corner of the boy's brain. Cort imagined a snake, rising up hypnotically and bewitching him, turning his muscles into molasses until he could hardly move. He tried to shrug away the challenge. Wade was a bad man. He killed for fun. What little he lacked in speed he more than made up for in cunning. 'I hate you...' Cort said to himself. 'I hate every damn thing about you. I hate that I'm scared of you. I hate that you make me live like this. I hate what you did to my mother.... I fuckin' hate every fuckin' word you say...I wish I could wipe that smirk off your fuckin' face...'

"I ain't gonna draw. Shoot me in the back or I'm riding out, but you ain't gonna stop me..." He couldn't turn round. Not because he couldn't draw fast enough but because he couldn't shoot any man down in the street, let alone his own flesh and blood. Cort wished he could hear the sound he was waiting for. That tiny rush when the air moved that would show him that Wade was reaching.

Because if he did, then Cort knew he could move. Then it would be self defense. Then he would have no choice.

"Ben Wade, you just leave my boy alone...!" His mother's voice broke in, shattering the breathless silence, returning them to reality. They were kin. This should not be happening.

"Shut the fuck up, Martha.  This between him and me. The boy needs a lesson. That job falls to the men of this family," Wade threw across at her. He never wasted the opportunity of reminding her that he thought she was a whore. Her son was only a Wade because she didn't know who his Daddy was to give him a name of his own. Cort was just the bastard results of her opening her legs once too often.

Martha Wade sneered at her sister's son. Even as a young boy he'd been a bully Many's the time she'd witnessed him take his hand or his belt to her son. This time, however, he had gone too far. She wasn't frightened of him, even if everyone else was.

Striding across the street, she stood in front of him. "You gonna have to shoot me to get to my son."

Ben laughed, an unusually high pitched giggle that was always at odds with his deep voice. "You think I wouldn't?" 

"...Oh, you would alright, you worthless piece of shit. But not today. Let the boy go, Ben. I'm still the boss of this outfit. I'm still the man who raised you. Or you gonna put one between my eyes as well?" Jasper Wade surveyed the scene impassively. On one side was the boy he'd taken in at the tender age of 8 to raise as his own, his brother's son Ben. After his own father had died, Ben had been abandoned by his mother, left stranded at a train station, nothing to his name but the clothes he wore and the Bible she'd left him to read while waiting for her to return as promised with their train tickets away from the town of Benson. For three long days as Ben waited dutifully on his mother to return like she'd promised, he'd read that Bible.

When at last he'd read it cover to cover, the survivor instinct inside Ben had kicked in. He'd scrounged food and slept under buildings, trying to figure out what had happened to keep his mother from him. Eventually, someone had hauled him in to the Marshal; a wire had gone out to Jasper and his wife -- the only kin the boy had known well enough to remember their names and the town where they lived. Jasper could still picture the boy stepping off the train. So young and wise way beyond that age. His wife was still childless after all those years; Ben had become the son he should have had and that's how Jasper raised him - as his son and heir. 

On the other side was young Cort, another boy Jasper'd agreed to shelter on their compound.  What else could he do, really, after his wife's sister's husband had died? There were, of course, other considerations for Jasper; they were unspoken if understood. But ever since Cort had been born, he had been a target for Ben. The years had not dulled Ben's determination to undermine and goad his younger cousin.

This rivalry between the two cousins had gone too far. Cort was a decent kid but he was bad news. There was a streak in him that worried the older man. It was better if he lit out and joined another gang, as he surely would if he walked away today. It was in Wade blood. Some men only know one way of making their way in this world - and that was by taking from the other men who tried to do it the better way.

Ben flashed his uncle a searching look, but did not move another muscle. The stand off continued. Cort closed his eyes imagining his mother using her body to block the shot. He counted slowly, a trickle of cold sweat running down his face. He would turn. And he would kill Ben Wade.

Wade spat on the ground, inches away from Martha's feet. "What the fuck? He ain't worth the price of a bullet. You even less, you fuckin' whore..." Ben walked away, heading towards the doorway where his uncle was standing. "Get out of here, Cort Wade. I ever see your face again, I will surely kill you...you mind what I say, coz?"

Brushing past Jasper, knocking shoulders he muttered to his uncle, the man he considered his father "You're mighty soft on that woman. And on that kid...something I should know...Pa?"

"You're quiet, Cort. You feeling tired?" Mattie asked him and he jumped back from his reverie of the past into the present. She was still standing close, her fingers circling his back. It was a long, long time since he had had a woman. It was late night, he was clean, warm, well fed - and the urge was on him. He struggled to tamp it down, to ignore the press of her slender hip against his arm and the soft swell of her breasts inches from his face. Mattie smelt of lavender water and soap. He wondered if her other scent, that earthy female perfume that the flowery essence was seeking to mask, was as sweet.

"Yeah. Been up since before dawn. I ought to be moving along..." he muttered hoarsely, adjusting himself in his seat. It was time to get out of here before he did something he would regret.

"You don't have to rush. Stay awhile. I'd like you to...Maybe we could have a last shot of whisky and talk some? I get so lonely at night..." Mattie tried to offer him a reason to stay. Her seasoned eyes had flickered over his groin. It was hard for a man as well endowed as Cort to hide what her closeness had done to him. It wouldn't take much more to make him cut loose. Once he did, Mattie felt sure he would change towards her.

Cort rose, but it only brought him nearer to him, body pressed to body, he now towering over her, her feminine delicacy matched against his virile bulk. She smiled up at him, her hand tightening on his arm. "Stay...Cort...I know you don't really want to leave just yet..." she whispered.

His hand reached out and fingered one of her golden curls, pushing it away from off her brow. His heart was beating loud in his ears, blood pounding through his body as he fought the desire to take her and bury himself in a soft body. Mattie knew the score. She was no innocent widow woman. He liked her a lot. Not just in that way either. She was a good soul at heart. He was lonely. Maybe they might be good for each other. He was talking himself into sin.

Cort's head dropped a little closer, openly inhaling her fragrance, his fingers trailing down her back, placing a slight pressure to bring her in contact with that part of him that ached for a woman's touch. Mattie tilted her head back. Her lips parted. He could almost taste her mouth...

"...Marshal? You in there? Marshal? Got something for you..."  An impatient banging on the back door of the shop and the voice of Shorty West made them both jump apart. Cort shivered and took a deep breath, choking off a sigh at the interruption. Mattie turned away, cursing colorfully under her breath.

"Hold your horses, West, I'm coming..." he shouted, reaching for his hat and stepping towards the door. "Thanks for supper, Mattie.  I appreciate it, darling...I'm sorry, but I better see what he wants. Maybe we could...some other night...you know? I could take you out and buy you a steak or something? If you'd like. When you're free...I gotta run before he knocks down the damn door..." Cort's hesitant responses were unlike him. Mattie knew it was betraying his embarrassment and the abrupt end to what was so near to being his seduction of her. She smiled and nodded, unlocking the door.

"I'd like that, Cort. Anytime you're free..."

The door swung open and Shorty from the Western Union office was standing there, waving a telegram. "This just came in from El Paso. You remember Mort Ackers?  Used to run the gun shop here when Herod was still alive...? Seems he's in El Paso now..."

Cort grunted. "You gonna let me read the damn telegram?" West looked abashed and handed it over, wiping his hands nervously on his worn britches.

'Wade gang Tucson train. Stop. Asked about Redemption...'

"You think they're coming here, Marshal? You think they heard Herod's dead?" West blurted our, clearly scared. He'd lived in these parts since the early days. He knew what the Wade boys were capable of.

Cort studied the words with an odd feeling as if he had been expecting this for a long while. He had removed one of the two men who had been part of his downfall; it could have only been a matter of time before the other one reared his head up. He'd always known it would come to this even if he had hoped that someone else would do him a favor and gun Ben down on a street some day and save him the trouble.

Some chance. Life never worked like that. This had been coming since the day he was born. And most likely would carry on until the day he died.