"Hey, you the Johnson boy? Saw you shooting with your pals down the creek the other day. You got a good eye." Cort noticed Chance Johnson running past as he left his office one morning. The boy stopped and looked at him, a little shy.

"Sir. Thank you, sir."

"Name's Cort. Not Sir. You still practising?"

Chance shook his head. "Don't have a gun, Si...Mr. Cort. Just fooling with one of theirs."

"You ain't never shot a gun before?"

"No."

Cort pondered that for a moment, biting on his lower lip. "Come here, boy..." he began leading him into his office. At the gun cupboard, he unlocked and pulled out a firearm.

"Took it off a drunk one night...he left the next day and never claimed it. Been a coupla months now...you might as well put it to use. It's nothing special but it's a reasonable weight and it shoots straight. Here...help yourself..." Cort tossed over a box of bullets, too, and the boy caught them deftly. Good reflexes. Chance took the gun, looked at it lovingly and then handed it back. "I can't, Sheriff. Thank you anyway. My sister won't allow me to own a weapon."

Cort frowned. "A man needs to defend himself, 'specially in these parts. Don't she understand that? Most women, too, know how to point a rifle."

"She isn't from these parts and has high flown ideas about the rule of law and order. She thinks it's barbaric and won't have anything to do with gunplay...I'm sorry..."

Cort listened and wondered if this was the cause of the strange animosity that the woman seemed to express towards him. But she was wrong. No one hated guns quite like he did but he knew their place. "Make a deal. The gun stays here but if you want to try out and pick up some skills...come over and help yourself. Put it back when you've finished and your sister is none the wiser. Till the day that you shoot a rattler from under her and she learns the hard way, that is." He made his point with an arch of his eyebrows and a slight pout of disapproval on his lip.

Chance thought about it, knew Hope would be sore if she found out, but accepted the more than generous offer. He was in awe of the sheriff. Cort seemed to him to be the epitome of all the best of the West. Handsome, taciturn, noble, upright - a man who had come from nothing and shaped himself to be a decent citizen. Hope didn't understand men like him. She was used to smart city men with their clever tongues and privileged ways. Life was different here, rawer but more real. If he had his way, Chance thought, I'd rather be a man like Cort than the kind my sister wants me to be.

"Thank you, sheriff. I'm mighty obliged. It's real decent of you."

Cort grinned. "Think nothing of it. Say, I got an hour to spare. Want me to show you a few things? Start you off with no bad habits?"

An unlikely friendship was formed that day between the lonely ex- gunslinger and the quiet city boy. They both felt an affinity to each other, although neither understood why. Cort had a natural feel for leadership; he had once taught little children in a mission and enjoyed the chance to be a mentor again. Chance was an orphan brought up by his sister ever since the death of his parents, years ago. Even when they were alive his Ma and Pa had been very old and he had never really been close to them as he might have been with a younger father. The gap between him and his only sibling was wide and he had grown up a solitary boy, obedient but thoughtful. The influence of a virile man like Cort was compelling for such a boy. He came to long for the times when Cort and he would ride off into the llano and spend an hour or so talking and shooting. They didn't say much but Chance felt that he could ask this man most things and would receive real answers, not the sort of exasperated sweeping aside that his sister gave him if he mentioned to her some of the things that bothered him. She would just say, "Men!" and he felt bad. He didn't really know what she had against them.

"You're not married?" Chance asked him one day as they rode slowly home.

Cort shook his head and smiled quietly to himself. "No... nobody would have me, son."

Chance looked surprised. From the rumours he had heard every woman in town from eight to eighty was carrying a secret torch for the Sheriff. "You ain't never asked anyone?"

"Nope."

"Don't you want a woman? I mean..." Suddenly Chance realised what his comment sounded like. "I mean, don't you want children, a family...you know?"

Cort ran his hand through his hair and exhaled. How to explain to a young boy on the brink of manhood? "I like women well enough, Chance, but liking a woman and loving her are different things. Sure, I'd like to have been a father..." At that his flesh crawled slightly. He had been a father. Twice to his knowledge and probably many more times. But the lie would have to stand. "Yeah...I would have liked kids but...a man like me is not father material. Husband material, neither. So...no, I'm not married."

"Oh." Cort heard a question in the response. He looked over at the boy. Fifteen or so? He remembered how he had felt at fifteen. Thought about nothing else but his dick. Jerking off morning, noon and night. Boy must be wondering what a man does without a woman. Maybe thinks he's abnormal...only a sister in the house and can't rightly ask her opinion on that.

"I use my hand, boy...just like you do. Sometimes a whore. But I try to keep away from that sort of thing if I can. Not a very dignified way for a man to treat a lady."

Chance blushed at the honesty of the man's reply. He found it hard to imagine this rock of a man jerking off like a dirty little boy under the covers. He also found his other comment hard to fathom. "But whores aren't ladies..."he began.

"Then what would you call them? They sure as hell ain't men." Cort replied with a wry grin.

"I mean...they ain't respectable. They do it for money. Ladies wouldn't do that..."

"They don't do it alone, son. Got to be a man paying to make a woman a whore. It's just a job. They ain't got nothing else to feed their babies- mostly 'cos some man has abused them and put them in that position. Don't ever blame a woman for giving a man what he wants. If it's good enough for him, it's good enough for her."

"But you said it wasn't dignified..."

"It ain't. For either of them. But it's life and there are worst things than whoring. Most of the worst things are done by God-fearing people who would look down their noses at whores and worn-out gunslingers like me. Don't mind me, son...I have a singular view on life. Not shared by many."

Cort sank into a pensive silence and his young travelling companion did likewise. Just when he thought that the subject was at a close, Chance realised that Cort had something else to say. "Let me give you a piece of advice. I know you're young and curious and girls will be on your mind plenty. But no matter how much you want to learn and how little a thing it seems to you, girls are different. They have a lot to lose that you don't understand. Slow down and think of your own sister. How would you feel if some man came along and ruined her life? Every girl you meet could be your sister, or your mother...or your daughter...think about that."

Cort had given Chance a lot to think about. But the incident stayed in Cort's mind for a long time, too. He had wondered now and again about his seed. He avoided young whores in bordellos - somewhere in his head was a terrifying image of accidentally lying with his own child. It could happen in these small towns. Somewhere out there were young people whom he had fathered, of this he was sure, and the knowledge of his abject failure to protect his own, lay heavy on his conscience. He had hated his father for not providing a decent life for himself and his mother. He himself was a hundred times worse.

Frank Casey came into the offices of the Redemption Herald to settle his account and place an advertisement. Hope was busy bundling up some copies to be delivered to outlying ranches and he stood waiting for her, passing the time of day.

"Saw your boy shooting at the moon the other day. He's got a good eye. Didn't miss one target. Mind you, can't be many better teachers than the Sheriff, now, can they?"

Hope stopped what she was doing and stared. "What did you say? Chance? You sure you mean my Chance? With a gun? With the Sheriff?"

"Yes, Ma'am... they were out past the graveyard up near Eagle Rocks with a few targets. Seems like the Sheriff has taken to your brother..." She didn't wait for him to finish. Storming out of the office, Hope charged off in the direction of the Sheriff's office, walking with serious intent. Her demeanour was so noticeable that people turned and stared after her as she crossed the street and ran up the steps, throwing back the door on his hinges.

"I want a word with you!" Cort looked up at the sudden interruption. He was sitting at his desk with a few of the older men of the town; they were holding a town meeting to plan for some of the new improvements that they hoped to inaugurate. The other men stood up, embarrassed, and took their leave as Hope remained at the door, her breasts heaving with temper as she struggled to restrain herself. One by one they tipped their hats at her and left, looking back, curious at what had prompted her abrupt appearance.

When they were alone she slammed the door on any eavesdroppers and stepped forward. "How dare you try to influence my brother in your foul ways! How dare you corrupt a young boy!"

Cort rose and looked at her in stony faced silence. "I beg your pardon, Ma'am?"

"You heard me! You are trying to make a gunslinger of my little brother. How dare you! It was my express wish that he never touch a gun in his life..."

"Boy's almost sixteen..."

"So?"

"With all due respect, Ma'am, Chance will be a man soon. He'll make his own decisions. That's all I'm saying."

"Oh, is it?" Hope marched up to his desk and faced him eye to eye. "You think you can tempt him from the path of righteousness with clever talk like that? He is my brother and has been brought up to be obedient and dutiful. What do you know of raising a young man?"

Cort paused and thought before answering. "Raised myself. How much do you know about young men? Older ones for that matter, either?" His point was implicit. She was an unmarried woman of virtuous reputation- a spinster. He was questioning her qualifications to make decisions in a man's world. Hope exploded at his insinuation.

"Raised yourself? To be a killer, a robber, a debaucher of young woman, a gambler, a philanderer, a renegade....which of those were you hoping my brother would be?"

Cort looked away and struggled to compose himself. "I simply meant that I know what a young man needs to know to survive out here. I wasn't trying to usurp your authority. I don't want him to make a mistake- and nor should you. He is going to grow and make his own way in the world- don't fight the fact that he is a man...embrace it. Or one day you may find your brother strikes out on his own and turns his back on you- and then your chances of influencing him for the good are gone. I know. I was a boy with no one to guide me. Look at the mess I made of myself."

"So, I take it you teach my brother how to sharp shoot so that he can be an honest man? Pardon me if I find that hard to believe! What is the next lesson? Drinking? Gambling? Whoring? Or do you have other interests...exactly why would a man of your age want to take a young boy off into the desert on his own? You've never married. Are you a paederast as well as everything else?"

She spat the words out and Cort shot her a look that revealed the depths of his seething anger. But he had learnt long ago how to restrain those moments when a glimmer of his former brutality threatened to leak out. "I think you better go and calm down, Ma'am. If you are making an accusation against me, you better make sure you know the facts. People in this town won't take kindly to you spreading evil gossip against one of their own."

"I forgot...you are St. Cort of Redemption now...tortured priest and hero...I must have read the wrong book. Funny how the same people have been telling me some very different stories about you. Enough to get you strung up, in fact."

Cort remained impassive as she swung around and made for the door. "I never said I wasn't a bad man once. I never pretended that I hadn't done wrong. Your brother is in no danger from me. I simply wanted to help, that's all. If I overstepped my rights then, I apologise. Don't blame the boy- he meant no harm. He's just growing up and curious to fit in like all the other boys. It's not easy to understand the world when you're a fifteen year old boy."

Hope spun on her heel. "A fifteen year old boy can do a lot of damage, Mr. Cort. And I speak from experience. Good day."

Cort sank back in the chair and contemplated her words. There was something in all this that he was missing, but he couldn't for the life of him work out what it was.

It happened from time to time and Cort was always waiting for it. Weeks, months could go by and nothing and then someone would turn up with a grudge or a desire to prove himself and he would hear the familiar words as he walked up the street. "You Cort?...You the sheriff? Name o' Cort?"

Cort stopped and kept his back turned on the man who spoke. "Yeah...who's asking?"

"Too yella' to turn round and face me?" The man's challenge was thrown out. The street emptied; the watchers gathered.

Cort held his hands away from his body and swivelled on his heels. He saw his opponent. A young fella, early twenties, looked half starved but his bright eyes showed that he'd been drinking. Cort knew the picture. The boy comes into town with some notion to take on the famous shootist and make his name. Boasts in the saloon, people offer him money - but bet against him behind his back. Not that he'll lose- that was a surety- but on such things as how many seconds it would take him to draw, how many bullets it would take, whether the boy would even get his gun out, if it would be between the eyes, straight through the heart or maybe just winging him to stop him.

"Back off, boy, this ain't gonna happen."

"Who says? You gettin' too fat and old these days, sheriff? Or was it always just talk? You couldn't even take the Woman, could ya? I heard about that."

Cort did not reply, but merely unbelted his guns, untying the leather thong on his thigh first, and letting them fall to the street. "It ain't gonna happen, son. You gonna shoot an unarmed man?"

The boy reached for his gun and held it out pointing at Cort; his hands shaking visibly. He was scared and desperate, seeing the money he had been promised slipping away- hunger enough to overcome his fear of failure.

"Pick up the gun...pick up the fuckin' gun...I ain't scared of you...I'll gun ya down anyway..." As he screamed, Cort advanced slowly, hands open and raised.

"I'm going to walk over and take that gun and you are going to hand it to me. Think. You're dead if I shoot you, you're dead if you shoot me. So give it up...come on, give it up..."

"I ain't got nuthin' to lose...I don't care...I don't fuckin' care..."

"Son...everyone's got something to lose. Life's a very precious thing and you only get one chance. Please,son...please...don't do it..."

All the while he was covering the ground slowly but surely as the moments ticked by and everyone held their breath. Everyone except Cort, who seemed calm and in control, his eyes intense as they stared at the boy and he came nearer and nearer. Facing each other now, he stretched out his hand. The boy began to cry and then handed over the gun meekly. Cort took it, threw it from them and then embraced the boy, holding him to him as he sobbed, stroking back his hair. Then he led him to the cantina and asked that someone get him some food and water. "You're coming with me. I want you to sleep off the whiskey in a cell and tomorrow we talk. You got that? We're gonna work this out." Looking around him, Cort broke up the crowd of onlookers. "Show's over, folks. Bets are off. Go home." And he guided the boy over to his office.

None of this had escaped Hope's notice as she had stood on a chair peering through the window of her shop. What she had seen had shocked her profoundly. It would have been his right as the sheriff to gun the boy down and even she could see he had been challenged unfairly. His act was one of extreme courage; even a desperate boy was dangerous if armed with a primed gun. Cort had risked his life to prevent the boy from making a terrible mistake. It threw everything she had believed about this man into turmoil.

"Chance? I spoke to the sheriff today about your shooting lessons." Hope addressed a sullen Chance as he slunk in for supper that evening. He had failed to do any chores or even show his face at the office all day.

"I know. Everyone in town knows what you said. Made me look a laughing stock." She saw that his eyes were a little swollen. She imagined boys taunting him and that he had run off to lick his wounds, perhaps even shed a tear.

"I wish you hadn't gone behind my back against my express orders. That was unworthy of the way you've been raised."

Chance raised his eyes and gave her an intense stare- it was an expression that she had never seen on his face before. It was both familiar and alien to her. It did not look like the little boy she knew. "I am nearly sixteen years' old. I'm almost a man. I don't intend to tell you everything I do or ask for your permission every time I step out of the door. One of these days, I might not even walk back."

A chill ran down Hope's spine at his cold words that echoed the sheriff's own warning. How long could she exercise control over this boy-man? How much right did she even have as his sister?

"I raised you since Ma and Pa died. Don't you owe me some respect for that?"

She saw his shoulders slump and his aggressive demeanour pass away. "I owe you everything, I know that, Sis. But I have my own ideas, too. Can't you let me think for myself sometimes? I would never do anything to make you ashamed of me. You brought me up too well for that. Just let me learn to be a man? I don't want to be some kind of weakling hiding beneath a woman's skirts. Surely you don't want that for me?"

Hope thought on his words. His eloquent appeal impressed her and she saw a new light in his eye. He wasn't a little boy anymore and there was in him the shapings of a fine man. It was beholden upon her to ensure that she didn't make him rebellious and bitter and choose the wrong path. She thought of the desperate young boy on the street and how he had been goaded to take on a man he couldn't win merely to prove himself equal to the men who had set him up for sport. Would Chance turn to that kind of role model if she spurned his attempts to find a way to manhood properly?

"I take your point, Chance, and it is a better one now that you have put it into argument rather than sneaking behind my back. I don't like it but I won't stop you from target practice. But you must promise me you will never use that skill against others - that is the way to ruin. Do you see that?"

He nodded. "The sheriff, he talked about stuff like that. Said a man who knows he's strong must also know that with that strength comes responsibility. Defend the weak and protect the vulnerable but never seek to make your own life at the expense of others. He said it was the same whether you can shoot a gun, or whether you are the President. We all have to remember what we are really here for."

Hope frowned at the lesson Chance reeled off. "He said that, to you?"

"Yes, ma'am. Other stuff, too. Like about women...girls, I mean..."

"Girls? What did he say to you about girls?" A sudden note of concern came into her voice; she remembered a morning when she had observed an intimacy between a half naked sheriff and a local whore at the window of the bordello. Then she recalled the stories her witnesses had described of his callous treatment of former lovers.

"Just about how every woman I meet could be my sister, my mother, my daughter...about having respect for them. That sort of thing."

Hope smiled gently. "Then it was good advice. Next time you see the sheriff tell him that your sister says that she has no objections to you borrowing his gun and thank him for his time. Now go wash up and lay the table. Supper's almost ready..."

He dashed off, already his mood buoyant and uplifted. Hope returned to the meal and spooned out the stew and vegetables, a hunk of bread on the side and a jug of fresh milk. She sat pensively waiting for Chance to return so they could say Grace and begin. Her thoughts were bewildering.

It was a town occasion. A barn dance to precede the harvest festival on the coming Sunday and the sort of innocent fun that had been denied to the people of Redemption in the bad old days. It was going to be a night to remember, with homesteaders and ranching families travelling in to share in the fun and every available space taken for sleeping- even the town jail was doubling as a guest house for the night.

There was no barn big enough to hold such a crowd so the festivities were on an open ground not far from the main street and people had been working all week to ready the place. Banners, stalls for food and drink, a podium for the fiddle players, side areas for games and hoopla, tables and chairs pooled together by all the residents for the seating. Women had been baking and cooking all week and young girls had spent endless hours before mirrors arranging their hair and dresses to catch the eye of someone whom they liked. Old and young were looking forward to it. No one would be absent.

Hope and Chance wandered along and were soon swept along in the simple gaiety, welcomed as one of their own by these good people starved of a decent life for so long. She was asked to dance by several of the young men there- some cowboys, others shop boys and clerks but all dressed in their Sunday best, brushed and scrubbed and gentlemanly as you please. Chance stole a few shy glances at young girls who tossed their curls and fluttered their eyelashes back, but he was far too shy to make an attempt to ask one of the girls to dance, hanging back with Doobie, Jody, Willy and blind Billy Jo and the others all daring each other and boasting, but none making the move.

It was well on into the evening when couples were whirling round, flushed with punch and dancing that Cort sauntered over to take a look. He has made the effort and put on a black suit, the only decent thing he possessed, white shirt and little bootlace tie with silver tips. He had slicked his hair back off his face and shaved closely. It was right to show respect on such occasions.

Women shot sly looks across as the sheriff strolled through the throng greeting people and smiling. He, for his part, studiously ignored a great many of them. There were the young married women and those with small children who were clearly giving him the come on glance; then the unmarried woman who fawned and drooled over him, ready to throw themselves into a romantic fantasy about themselves and their notion of the heroic sheriff who shunned women and did good. Instead he made a beeline for the old ladies and danced with the grandmothers, who delighted in the attention the most handsome man in the county lavished on them. He could be charming, courteous and even flirtatious with no danger of giving a false message and they giggled like young girls while their husbands smiled and shook their heads, proud that their ladies could still turn a young man's head.

Hope watched this behaviour and found herself smiling at his warm generosity and easy friendship with the townsfolk and the clear message he was giving to them in the best of all possible ways. Another stone fell from the wall she had built between herself and this man.

In the corner of the field on a chair by a distant table, little Eliza Sullivan sat watching the fun quietly, her eyes like saucers and her heart full of longing to be up there with the others. She was a pathetic little creature, pitied by all the town folk. Her mother had died giving birth to her and she had been brought up by her grandma who resented the little bastard that her dead daughter had laid at her door. The birth had been a hard one and the baby was deformed- another reason not to have been loved by her carer, worn down after raising a large and mostly thankless family herself. Eliza's right arm was useless and her speech was difficult to understand- some congenital deformity that had been neglected. She lived on the fringes of town life, rarely seen and little considered.

Cort noticed her as he accepted a glass of beer from one of the ladies, saw the forlorn and plain little thing sunk into her chair like a lonely rock in an ocean full of people. Alone is so much more painful when one is in a crowd; Cort knew that feeling of alienation well.

Putting down the glass, he stepped over to where the girl was and knelt down at her level; she looked startled and pulled back, her eyes blinking like fireflies in her pale gloomy face. "Hey, darlin' I haven't got a partner. Would you put an old cowboy out of his misery and give him a dance?"

She gasped. "I can't. I don't know how." She managed to mutter.

"That's no hardship. It so happens, that I do." And he held out his hand and waited for her to take it. For a long moment she appeared as if she would reject it out of hand but then a sudden shy giggle led to her stand up and allow him to lead her onto the floor. She was tiny and ungainly but Cort made her feel like a beautiful woman. He bowed slightly and then held her in his arms, the little shrivelled hand cradled in his large warm palm and his other arm supporting her full weight so that her feet merely had to slide across the ground, even leave contact with the floor, and she would have no need to worry. Off they went, waltzing to the music, round and round until Eliza's face was bright with exhilaration and her eyes were shining with pleasure. She could not stop laughing as the sheriff whirled her round and teased her, telling her funny jokes and making sweet remarks.

She had always watched him with a mixture of hero worship and trepidation, but that night Cort won her little tender heart. Never in all her fifteen years had anyone singled her out for anything other than abuse or humiliation. His simple act of charity made her see herself anew- and also made the townsfolk ponder on their own lack of care for the unfortunate girl. When he finally returned her to her seat and kissed her withered hand in thanks, Eliza found herself the centre of attention. Other girls streamed over to ask her about the sheriff and what he had said, done, how it had felt, until she thought her heart would burst from the joy of belonging. Cort smiled when he watched her pretty little contemporaries try to figure out why they had not been similarly rewarded, as he strolled to the edge of the festivities and lit up a cigar.

Sitting on an upturned barrel, he smoked in silence, lost in his own memories.

"Do you mind if I join you?" Hope Johnson interrupted his thoughts with a tentative voice. Cort turned his head and eyed her a little suspiciously, unsure whether she wished to continue the matter of the other day. "I just saw you alone and have been meaning to speak to you. I wanted to apologise for my outburst the other day- it was unseemly to say the least and I had no right to accuse you in that way. I just wanted to say that. I have told Chance that, after due consideration, I have decided to let him continue to take target practice. Thank you for your help." She nodded, a little red-faced and turned to walk away.

"Miss Johnson...? I should have asked your permission. I had no right to go behind your back. I understand your concerns. Would you like a glass of punch? I'll get you one." He leapt up and went to the table where he was given two glasses and a knowing smile that he chose to ignore. Hope was perched nervously on the barrel when he returned. She watched him stride over, his rolling, easy gait ripe with virile self-confidence and sureness. "Here you go..." he tipped her glass and they both took a sip of the sweet juice.

"So...how do you like Redemption? Pretty different from back East, I'd say," Cort ventured an opener.

"Sure is. I like it fine. The people have been very welcoming."

He nodded and stared off into the distance. "They are like flowers blooming after the rains. Love to see their town full of decent folk instead of bad men."

Hope raised her eyes and watched his faraway gaze. "You know I am planning to write a book about this town and what happened when John Herod's gang ran it? Been collecting reminiscences. Some of them were about you."

Cort did not show any sign of comprehension. "That so?"

"Some of it is hardly flattering, sheriff. It might contradict the image of you that more popular dime novels have created."

"I expect you will tell the truth as you see is, Miss Johnson. Nothing wrong with that."

Hope wondered if there was a slight challenge in his words or whether he was merely giving his blessing. "Is there another truth that I may see? Is that what you mean? I'm an impartial observer and wish to see the whole picture. If you believe that there are things that you might know that could enlighten me, I would be grateful for the privilege of an interview with you...."

Cort grimaced slightly and then turned to face her. "No, Ma'am, I am happy for you to go with what you have. I know what I was. I know what I am. Don't make no difference to me what others say. I have said it all to myself."

"You must understand that some of the stories of you I have heard are quite... salacious..." She chose her word carefully and then wondered if he would know what it meant.

This time he smiled and looked her full in the eyes. "Let me see...I was a gunslinger, a quick draw, rode shotgun for an evil man, robbed banks, terrified local farmers, gambled, called men out for fun, broke hearts, forced woman to lose their virtue, whored, left a trail of bastards round the county, filled up the graveyards...did I forget anything?"

"Killed a priest who helped you..."

Cort's lips pursed and he looked away. "Yeah, that too...Miss Johnson...I did those things. I ain't never pretended otherwise. And now I am trying to make some kind of restitution. But I don't need no fancy East coast lady reporter to come here and tell me that nothing that I ever do will even come close, even if I live to be a thousand years old. Write your story and I hope it brings you success. It is of no consequence to me as long as you don't hurt the people of this town. You got that?"

With that, he stood up and walked away, leaving her stunned in his wake. She had thought she might have made him angry but not like this. Cort seemed to have no discernible desire to win her support or temper her prose. It was almost as if he welcomed the inevitable opprobrium, as if it were a further punishment that he deserved. The sight of his retreating back, broad and square, held taut but disguising a hidden sadness caused a sudden pain to strike her heart. He was such a beautiful specimen of a man and so wracked with guilt and remorse but yet, he still had so much blood on his hands. He threw all her notions of morality into disarray and endangered the carefully constructed wall she had erected around her own broken heart.

With an instinct that was almost devoid of any conscious thought, Hope leapt up and followed him, placing a hand on his arm. "Cort...would you have this dance with me?" The words were spoken before she even thought them in her brain. He spun round in surprise, a curious expression on his face. But then he smiled wryly, understanding her implicit act of truce.

"I don't mind if I do, Ma'am."

They stepped onto the already crowded dance floor where a caller was gathering the couples for a square dance. Once the frenetic scrambling was done and the scratching bows launched into the fast melody, Cort and Hope were swept along in the melee and swapped partners as they moved around the circle, just touching every so often as they met in the dance.

Flames flickered from the bonfire that had been lit as evening descended and cast a soft glow over the eager, laughing faces of the revellers. Hope followed Cort with her eyes as he went and then came back, each time giving her a slight nod and an angling of his head. She felt a tension building inside her that was confusing. It had something to do with this man. Voices sounded in her ears, some loud and strident, others soft and muted but none seemed to impact on her. A heady exhilaration was all she could feel, as her body relaxed and gave itself to the joy of dancing.

The set came to an end and the dancers took a rest while the band played a slow waltz. Hope gave Cort a slight smile of acknowledgment but he reached forward and grasped her hand again, pulling her against him. "My turn to ask. Only fair..."

She nodded her assent.

His hand felt warm and rough encircling her own, his shoulders solid and rocklike under the arm that sought to anchor herself on his fine thick neck. Cort placed a gentle pressure and guided her against his body, near enough for his imposing strength to be evident but not so as her dignity would be compromised. But the soft hand on her lower back seemed to burn through her dress and flame her naked flesh beneath. His smell was in her nostrils- soap, some sweet hair lotion, cigar and the tinge of whiskey. Male smells. Overlaying the smell of man...musk and the sweet odour of a light sweat from a tight jacket on a hot night, fresh from the dance. Her head swam with him. She fought for self control, unable to fathom when she had begun to feel this way about a man whom she had disliked intensely until a short time ago.

As they moved smoothly in time to the music, Cort took the opportunity to appraise this prickly, unpredictable woman in his arms. She was more handsome, than pretty or beautiful, with the kind of strong features that would age well. He wondered at her age- hard to tell- anywhere from twenty five to thirty five, he would reckon. Her hair was dark brown, rich in red lights, like the mane of a chestnut pony, and it was coiled in thick curls on her head, revealing her white neck and the elegant way she carried herself. It put him in mind of a thoroughbred horse, proud and independent, even when tamed. Her eyes were blue- grey and intelligent, set in a clear pleasing face which was inclined to seriousness, although the slight up-tilt to her nose and the light freckles scattered here and there gave a suggestion of playfulness that wasn't reflected in her demeanour. All told, there was an air of sadness about her and a still confidence that spoke of determination, perhaps even obsession.

But she felt good to hold. Hope was quite tall and stood up straight, her back and shoulders strong, although her body was slender and hinted at delicacy. She was neat and compact, lithe and soft all at the same time. Everything about her said 'woman' to a man such as he- the direct opposite of him in every way. That was always an intriguing allure for any man. He liked the way she did not shrink from his touch nor did she cling helplessly to him either; she felt like a partner. Looking down he caught her upward glance and for an instant a flash of something registered on his mind. What was that? Like a sudden crack of thunder on a still day, something had sent a shudder through his memory. He didn't know what he had seen but a lingering unease settled upon him, even as he enjoyed the sensation of this woman's closeness and the sweet perfume of her skin.

The music ended and they parted but both seemed unwilling to move away. Hope searched for something to keep him there, while Cort looked at his shoes and felt awkward.

"Were you surprised that a woman might be a newspaper editor?" It was a comment out of the blue, anodyne but yet challenging; she wasn't sure why she had said it. Cort accompanied her as they walked around the perimeter of the field.

"Suppose some folk think it's strange. But, I don't have any feelings one way or another. If a person wants to do something, then he does it. Or she does it." He smiled his correction at her and then indicated they should sit back down. Taking their places, Hope went on.

"Back East, it was considered a rather daring ambition. One of the reasons I came here was that I needed experience and I couldn't get it there. When my father died, he left me a small endowment so I bought the press and took a chance. If I can make a stir then one day they might take me seriously as a writer and a reporter."

Cort shrugged. "I guess so. Don't know much about those things. But I know that if a woman has a mind, she can do most anything."

Hope gaped. "That's a very unusual opinion for a man such as yourself. How did you come by that?"

He chewed on his lip, thoughtfully. "In this world there are lots of people. Some are good, some are bad, some are pretty, some are plain ugly, some are kind, some are mean, some are clever, some are stupid...and some of them are men and some of them are women. So stands to reason some women are going be better than men at things and men don't have no reason to be surprised."

"You seem very sure of that. What about men's jobs? I mean...you were a shootist. Surely you don't expect ever to meet a woman who could outshoot you?"

Cort smiled, a touch of arrogance. "Ma'am, they ain't anyone, man or woman, who can outshoot me. But a woman can be a fast draw. I know. I have met one."

Hope suddenly remembered the 'Legend of Redemption'. The mysterious female gun who had arrived to take her place in the shooting match.

"You mean Ellen, don't you? The woman who shot John Herod."

"Yes. I do."

"Did you know her well?" Cort looked at Hope with a quick side wards glance. 

"Not well. But biblically," he answered, unashamedly. Hope felt herself colour and cough slightly.

"You were lovers?"

"Not sure. We weren't in love."

"But you were intimate?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Cort laughed softly. "Why does any man want to be intimate with a woman?"

"You're not any man, Cort. Why did you share that if you knew you might have to kill each other the next day?"

Cort sighed deeply. "Because we knew we might have to kill each other the next day. Sometimes a man and woman just need to know that they are still alive to face tomorrow. Don't suppose a woman like you could understand that." He stood up and gave a slight nod. "I've taken too much of your time, Miss Johnson. I hope I haven't shocked you with my talk. It's late and the liquor has loosened my tongue. Thank you for your time and the pleasure of your company, Ma'am."

With that Cort stepped away and slipped into the dark night beyond the circle of light. Hope watched him go and wished him to stay.