Payback

Fear of everything was what kept him going. Of more pain, of never-ending thirst, of losing his mind in the middle of this desert. This was the third day he'd been stumbling around in this arid land, trying to make his way to town, ever since his horse had snapped its leg and he'd had to shoot her. The food had run out yesterday morning, the water last night. He figured he was still ten or more miles away from Hurley, New Mexico, and if he didn't find that watering hole today he probably wouldn't live long enough to get there.

At least his foot and ankle weren't broken. Severely sprained, but not broken as he had first feared when the horse stumbled in the hole and went down on him. It hurt bad enough to almost make him forget the pain from the gunshot wound in his shoulder. That was where Jessup had shot him in their frantic flight from Bayard, New Mexico. It took almost a whole day after his horse went down for Jessup to catch up with him, and the gun battle that ensued had left him further bruised and weary to the bone. Better than Jessup, who'd been left for dead.

It started last Tuesday and, as usual, over a game of five-card draw. The difference this time was he wasn't the one accused of cheating. That would be Taft, Jessup's partner. They'd been playing most of the night before he'd noticed the change in the flow of the game, and started watching the two of them carefully. It didn't take long for him to spot the con that Jessup and Taft were running, and it didn't take much for him to outmaneuver their efforts.

Barton and Spence hadn't been that lucky. Spence had dropped out first when his funds ran low, but Barton hung in the game for another two hours. When he finally gave up, Maverick had quit as well, citing the rising sun as a reason to retire.

Taft was the one that objected to Bart's dropping out. "Why now?" he asked, sounding thoroughly disgruntled. "Things are just gettin' interestin'."

"Let's just say I'm tired," Maverick answered.

"It's barely mornin'," Jessup stated.

"Didn't say what I was tired of."

Taft took offense at the remark. "What are you implyin'?"

"I'm not implyin' anything. I'm sayin' it right out."

"Sayin' what?" Jessup demanded.

"Don't push it, you won't like my answer," was Maverick's comeback.

"I don't like it already."

Bart stood up from the table and picked up his money. Once he'd put it away in his wallet, he chose to answer the both of them. "You two been cheatin' since last night."

"We been cheatin'? What about you? You won more than your fair share of pots." Taft was the most defensive of the two, which made sense since he was the one that had perpetrated the majority of the double and bottom-dealing.

"Just tryin' to keep the games even."

"Who are you?"

"Told you when I sat down. Name's Maverick. Bart Maverick."

Jessup spoke up. "Say, you got a brother named Beau? Kinda blonde, tall like you, uses an English accent?" Bart almost laughed. Most card-cheats knew his brother Bret, not his cousin Beau. "Didn't he run a saloon in Montana?"

"He did until his wife died. Now he's back on the road, runnin' up against con men like you two."

"Meaning?" Taft pushed.

Bart sighed. He'd tried to get out of this gracefully, with as little trouble as possible, but Taft just wouldn't let it go. For the first time in a while he looked around the saloon; everyone that was left was watching their table. Especially the badge that had just walked through the batwing doors.

"Let it go, Taft," Bart told the saddle bum. "Neither of us needs any trouble."

Taft's grin was wicked looking. "I asked you a question. I expect an answer."

"I already told you. You cheat. You and your partner both."

At last Taft stood, his right hand hovering over his Colt. That's when the badge finally spoke.

"Sit back down and keep your hand away from your gun. He ain't the first man you played against to accuse you of cheatin'. And unless one of us kills you, he won't be the last."

Taft let his hand fall to his side and sat back down slowly. Jessup hadn't said a word, but now he spoke. "Can he prove it?"

"He doesn't have to," the badge told Jessup. "He's the third person to accuse you. Him I don't know, but the other two I do. Time for you two to move along, before I arrest you both."

Jessup and Taft exchanged glances, then both of them gathered the money in front of them and stuffed it in their pockets. Jessup walked out first, with Taft close behind him. As he went through the doors, Taft growled, "This ain't over."

"It better be," the badge answered.

Bart stood behind the table, waiting to see what John Law's next move would be. He didn't wait long. "Names Rance. Jack Rance, sheriff of Bayard. And you are?"

"Bart Maverick. Thanks for the save, Sheriff Rance."

"Glad to be able to run those two outta town. I had a long talk with Spence and Barton. Theirs ain't the first stories I heard, but they're gonna be the last. You got business in town, Mr. Maverick?"

"Just poker, sheriff. Only difference is I don't play poker the way Taft and Jessup do. You can ask anybody about that."

"I'll take your word for it. Spence and Barton had no complaints with you. Just those two saddle tramps. You plannin' on bein' here long?"

Bart hadn't given that much thought. After Bayard he was going on to Hurley, then eventually to a poker game in El Paso. He was in no great hurry, but he saw no reason not to move along if that's what the sheriff was getting at. "You got a reason for askin', sheriff?"

"Just wonderin', Mr. Maverick. Those two are welcome to leave, the sooner the better. You're welcome to stay."

That was certainly a change from the way he was normally treated by most of the small-town lawmen. "I just may do that for a day or two. Thanks for not throwin' me out with them."

Rance chuckled. "You ain't given me any reason to invite you to leave. Leastways, you haven't yet. See that you keep it that way and we'll get along just fine." The sheriff turned around and departed the saloon, and Bart let out a sigh of relief. Now, if Jessup and Taft actually went ahead and left Bayard, Bart would stay another day before riding on to Hurley. He walked outside, stopping to pull out a cigar and light it. There was no sign of the two conmen or the sheriff, and Bart smoked for a minute before heading back to his hotel. He was ready for some sleep.

He spent most of the day in his hotel room, sleeping off the previous night's poker. Late in the afternoon he got out of bed and went downstairs and across the street to the café he'd eaten at the previous night. There was a pretty little waitress there named Tally and the food was good, so it was definitely worth a second visit. He was about half done with his meal when Jack Rance walked in and over to his table.

"Mr. Maverick, I was lookin' for you. You got a minute?"

"Sure, sheriff. Sit down and have some coffee. Tally, bring the sheriff a cup, would ya?" In just a minute there was a cup of coffee in front of Rance, and Bart's cup was refilled. Tally smiled and Bart returned the smile before looking over at his visitor. "What did I do?"

"It's not you, Maverick. It's Taft and Jessup. They didn't leave town, and Taft's been runnin' his mouth everywhere that he was gonna kill you. I went to arrest 'em both for last night but Taft's disappeared. Jessup's coolin' his heels over in a cell but he insists he don't know where Taft went. Thought I better find you and give you fair warnin'."

Bart sighed. Of course it was the one mouthing off about killing him that couldn't be found. This had started off as such a nice, peaceful trip, and now it had turned into – what? A gunfight he had no interest in participating in? A bullet in the back in the dark of night? Or looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life, until the one time he forgot to look?

"Thanks, Rance, I appreciate the 'heads up.' I'll be playin' poker at the Lily Belle tonight and leavin' in the mornin'. Maybe he'll turn up before that."

"Let's hope so. I'm still lookin' for him, so you'll probably be seein' a lot of me tonight. Sorry about all this; I figured him for a coward, not a fool."

"Well, my pappy always said a fool's the worst kind of coward. So you're right on both counts."

"Thanks for the coffee. I'll see you at the Lily Belle later." Jack Rance got up from the table and made his way out the door. Bart finished his dinner and his coffee, paid his check, and told Tally he'd see her for breakfast before he left town. She gave him a wan smile and told him she started work at six in the morning. He left her a good tip.

It was too early to head for the Lily Belle just yet, so he went back to his hotel room. He packed his clothes so he was ready to leave tomorrow, then checked to make sure that his Colt was loaded. He hadn't worn the shoulder holster that held his derringer for a while, but he put that on under his coat. There was no sense in being careless when someone was lurking around town threatening to kill you.

There were more men in the Lily Belle tonight than last night, including Spence and Barton, who sat in at Bart's table and repeated last night's goings on. Jack Rance wandered in around three in the morning and reported that no one had seen Taft since much earlier in the afternoon. Jessup was still in jail, where the sheriff intended to keep him until he'd located Taft and could ship them out of town together.

It was getting close to daylight when a commotion outside, including three or four gunshots, drew most of the patrons of the saloon, leaving Bart and Spence sitting by themselves at the poker table, along with the bartender behind the bar. "I guess we're done for the night, huh?" Spence asked. "Wonder what all the racket was about?"

"Don't know," the gambler answered. "Maybe we oughta go see."

Maverick and Spence got up and walked outside, just in time to see three men carrying a body off the street and over to the doctor's office. "Who got shot?" Bart asked.

"Jack Rance," the man standing next to him answered.

"The sheriff's dead?"

"Oh, no, sorry," the cowboy answered. "Rance was wounded. He's already at Doc's office."

"Then who was that?"

"The guy that was runnin' round threatenin' to kill the gambler. Hey, you're the one he was threatenin'. Taft, that was Taft. Drew on the sheriff an Jack shot him. Rance got winged, he's gettin' patched up now. Didn't look bad."

"Thanks," Bart answered, and headed towards the doctor's office. Just as he got inside there was a howl of pain from the back room. 'That's the sound of a bullet bein' pulled out,' he thought to himself. 'I know that sound.'

In just a few minutes the doctor came out into the front office. "What can I do for you, son?" he asked Bart.

"Sheriff alright?" the gambler asked.

"You a friend of Jack's?"

"Sort of. The man he shot was lookin' to kill me."

A look of recognition passed across the doctor's face. "Ah, he told me. Maverick, is it? Go on back if you want."

Bart tipped his hat to the doctor and walked into the exam room. The sheriff was just buttoning his shirt and gave Bart a half-smile. "You got here quick. Guess you heard about Taft?"

"Heard about you, too. Doc got the bullet out, huh? How'd you find him?"

"He found me. Guess you weren't the only one he wanted to shoot after I ran him and Jessup out of the saloon. He's dead, ya know."

Bart nodded. "I saw him get carried off. Thanks for takin' care of him before he got to me. Whatta ya gonna do about Jessup?"

Jack Rance stood up and headed out of the exam room, with Bart following him. "Put him on the next stage outta town, I guess. Ain't no use in holdin' him no more, with Taft dead." Out the front door and across the street, back up to the sheriff's office. There was no one inside at the moment except for Jessup and he was standing in the cell, tightly gripping the bars.

"What's goin' on? What was all the shootin' about? An what's he doin' here?" The last question was aimed at Bart, who'd trailed Rance into the jail. "You found Taft yet?"

"More or less."

"What does that mean?" Jessup questioned.

"He's . . . not comin' back for you, Jessup."

The man in the cell gripped the bars tighter, if that was even possible. "Taft?"

"Dead."

Jessup's attention shifted to the gambler. "This is all your fault," he spit out in a strangled voice. "If you hadn't . . . "

"If you hadn't cheated," Bart threw right back at him. "Nobody forced the two of you into that."

For more than a minute the man inside the cell glared at Bart silently. When he finally spoke again it was in a low, menacing tone, and there was little doubt that he meant what he said. "You're a dead man, Maverick. If it's the last thing I ever do, I'll kill you."

'Great,' thought Bart. 'This just went from bad to worse.'

"Maverick didn't have anything to do with it," the sheriff affirmed. "Taft drew on me. It's his own fault."

"Don't make no difference. Maverick's dead."

Bart shook his head. "I'm leavin', Jack. How long can you keep him in there?" He asked, indicating the cell.

"Forty-eight hours. That long enough for ya?"

A nod this time. "I'll make it work. Thanks for the help, sheriff." Bart and Jack shook hands, and the gambler left.

He hadn't been out the door a minute when Jessup spoke. "What are you holdin' me for, Rance?"

"Disturbin' the peace."

"Whose?"

"Mine. Sit down and shut up, Jessup. I'm not turnin' you loose so you can kill Maverick."

"Don't matter none, Rance. You gotta let me out sometime. And when you do, I'll get him."

The sheriff sighed. There was nothing more he could do, whether he wanted to or not. "He'll be long gone by the time you get outta there. Why don't you just forget about it and find a new way to make a livin'? Don't seem like you lost too much, anyway."

"That's where you're wrong. Taft was my best friend since we was kids. Like a brother, almost. Ain't never gonna be the same without him. And it's Maverick's fault."

"Watch out you don't join Taft up on Boot Hill. Got no idea how fast the gambler is with a gun."

"Don't matter none. I'll get 'em." Rance turned and started for the office door. "Where you goin'?" Jessup called after him.

"To get your breakfast."

Out the door and down the street he went, back to the café, where he found Maverick just finishing his food. The sheriff ordered and then sat down with the gambler. "You leavin' right away?"

"Soon as I'm done. I'm packed and ready to go. Why?"

"Don't waste any time. Jessup's still makin' noises about comin' after you. Hope you're good with that gun."

"I get by. I should be in Hurley by that time. Let's hope he gets tired of chasin' me."

"I'll send a wire to Sheriff Adams, tell him to keep his eyes open for Jessup. Sorry, that's about all I can do for ya."

Bart nodded. He wasn't happy about it, but Jack was right. There was nothing further that could be done unless Jessup did something besides run his mouth, and so far the saddle tramp hadn't. He paid his bill and picked up his hat, placing it low over his eyes and standing up before he said anything else. "I appreciate what you've done. You've been fair, and that's all anybody could ask. Thanks."

The sheriff watched the gambler walk out the door, get on his horse and ride away. He had the distinct feeling it wouldn't be the last time he saw Bart Maverick.

XXXXXXXX

That first day of heading away from Bayard was uneventful. It was hot and unpleasant, but not unexpected. The nights in the desert cooled off and allowed sleeping under the stars with no unforeseen consequences. Bart lay against his saddle and thought about a lot of things; his life and how it hadn't gone exactly as planned or expected; his family, especially his brother, how it would be so very different if Bret wasn't around; and what the next poker game might bring. He thought about Jessup, too, and Taft, and whether the remaining card cheat would really follow him or not. He hoped it was just another case of threats made in the moment, but he had the uneasy feeling that Jessup's words were more than just idle threats. He hoped he was wrong.

It was late afternoon of the next day, and he was making good progress towards Hurley when everything changed. Neither he nor the mare saw the rock she stumbled on or the hole her left foreleg caught in, and in mere steps she went down, throwing her rider forward and landing on his foot and ankle. The mare whinnied and Bart howled, both in immediate pain, and she tried gallantly to regain her feet, all to no avail. The gambler clawed at the dirt frantically until he was finally able to pull himself out from under the horse, and he knew he had to eliminate her suffering. There was no way to repair the damage inflicted on her foreleg and, despite his own pain, he drew his Colt and quickly ended her misery.

His foot and ankle throbbed and he lay there a good few minutes breathing heavily before even attempting to move. Slowly and tenderly he finally flexed his right foot and knew, while movement hurt intensely, that nothing was broken. He pulled himself completely free of the body and rolled away gradually until he was in the clear and able to sit up.

He looked around in the fading daylight and knew he was in trouble. He'd brought only enough food and water to get him through the three-day trip, and he was almost halfway to Hurley when the mare went down. It was a long walk to his destination and he was left with no choice but to do just that. There was no sense in trying to progress any further tonight, and a night's rest would do his injured body some good. Bruised and battered he gathered himself and gingerly got to his feet, managing to grab and hang onto his saddlebags, bedroll and rifle. He limped clumsily about ten feet to the east of the body, where he found a small grove of mesquite trees and dropped his gear, then himself. It was only after he'd lowered his weary body to the ground that he realized he'd left his canteen where the horse lay. With a minimum of effort he once again pushed himself upright and staggered shakily to his feet; back to get his water and whatever else he could use.

The night passed ever so slowly and he slept in fits and starts, waking when the pain in his ankle periodically flared. By sunrise he was done with sleep and made coffee, and when he was finished with that he gathered his belongings and continued the arduous journey to Hurley. He trudged on all day, making slow but continuous progress until once again the light and the heat began to fade. He'd almost reached a stand of boulders that promised some cover for the night when the first shot rang out; he felt the sting as the bullet grazed his left shoulder. He scrambled for the rocks and made it just as he heard the second shot. There could be no other answer, it had to be Jessup.

Bart took cover and waited. The night got darker and the shots grew closer; Bart returned fire only sporadically. The last thing he wanted was to hit Jessup's mount and condemn whoever survived to walking the rest of the way. His shoulder hurt, even though it was a minor wound, and he was almost hit a second time by a ricochet off the rocks. "This isn't gonna get us anywhere, Jessup," he finally called out, wanting to try and pinpoint the area the shots were coming from.

"Sure it is," came Jessup's voice in the dark, and Bart knew his pursuer was virtually out in the open. "It's gonna get you dead."

"Not if I can help it," Bart murmured, and sent two quick rifle shots in that direction. He was sure he'd heard a soft grunt and knew at least one of the shots had found its mark. Fifteen or twenty minutes passed with no return fire and the gambler concluded he had to get close enough to see what kind of damage he'd done. Just as he started to crawl towards the area of desert that he'd sent the bullets toward, one last rifle blast could be heard and there was a brief squeal from Jessup's horse, followed by the sound of a large object hitting the ground. All was deathly still, and there was no doubt in Bart's mind what the saddle tramp had done – made sure there would be no easy escape for the gambler.

He made his way slowly towards the rifle shot, trying to be cautious in case Jessup was wounded but alive. By the time he got close enough it was clear there were two bodies on the ground – the card cheat and his horse. Neither was still breathing and, in a final act of defiance, the dead man had emptied his canteen into the desert dirt. Bart shook his head in desperation and lay still for quite a while, trying to regain his strength and the will to stand and search for anything that might be useful in his trek across the barren landscape. He found nothing.

Back the way he'd come, to his meager supplies and dwindling reserves, where he fell into an exhausted sleep and woke every time he tried to roll onto his left side.

He wasn't done with sleep when dawn came, but he ate what little food he had left and started once more across the desert, hoping to avoid some of the worst temperatures of the day. He limped along most of the morning and found some small shade as the sun reached its zenith in the sky. The heat was so intense that he almost passed out rather than fell asleep. He slept through the worst of the afternoon and woke as the sun was beginning to set. There were two or three swallows of water left and as he finished them knew that he had to find water soon . . . or die, as Jessup had intended.

He walked all night, taking it slower in the dark with nothing but moonlight to guide him, continuing on into the early hours after sun up. The situation was desperate and only getting worse, but he knew there was a minor watering hole somewhere in the immediate vicinity. The only thing he could do was keep on walking . . . and praying, until it once again became almost too hot to bear. There was a small hill not too far up ahead, with two or three mesquite trees and a tall saguaro cactus, and he stumbled on towards that until he finally reached the barely discernable shade they provided. He fell to the ground, exhausted and parched beyond imagination, too worn out to move, and waited. He almost laughed, but his mouth was too dry for laughter. He wondered if his brother would ever know just where he died, or that he was even gone.

The day passed, the heat beginning to break in the early evening, and still he lay. Another night came and went, and towards morning Bart thought he must be nearing the end when he could have sworn he heard a horse. He strained to hear and believed he was delusional, but it certainly sounded like someone's mount headed his way. And then he heard more than just a horse – he heard a voice. A voice he could almost swear belonged to Jack Rance.

"Bart! Bart Maverick! Can you hear me? You must be out here somewhere! Answer me, Maverick!"

He tried, he really tried, but his tongue clung precariously to the roof of his mouth and he couldn't make a sound. Struggling mightily he managed to get his Colt out of its holster and fired a shot into the air. "One more, Maverick!" the voice yelled, and he sent another round into the chamber and out the barrel of the gun. "I got ya!" was the last thing he heard before slipping into unconsciousness.

Sometime later he woke to find water on his lips and tongue and he swallowed gratefully, hungrily. "Easy there, Bart, there's plenty here. Take it slow."

Two more big swallows and the canteen was pulled back, Bart gasping for air. He looked up into the sheriff's face and managed a smile, small but heartfelt. Finally, his tongue loosened by the life-saving water, he choked out an almost-whispered word. "Jack."

"Yeah, that's me alright." His rescuer tipped the canteen back once again, and Bart took two more swallows of the best water he'd ever tasted.

"How?" was the only thing the gambler could ask.

"Had a feelin' you were gonna need help, and it just wouldn't let go. Jessup tore outta that cell like somebody'd lit him on fire. I grabbed a couple extra canteens and followed. When I found your horse I knew I'd done the right thing."

"Hit a hole. Broke her leg. Had to . . . had to shoot . . . "

The sheriff nodded his head and poured water on his kerchief, wiping down the gambler's face and neck. That's when he saw the blood on Bart's shirt. "Let me take a look at that shoulder," and he rolled the injured man carefully towards his right side. A few minutes later he wiped the wound down. "Doesn't look too bad, considerin'. Doc McNulty can take care a that when we get you to Hurley."

"How far?" Bart managed to ask.

"Far enough that you wouldn't a made it. Here, have some more water," and once more he tipped the canteen up for the gambler to drink. "Can you ride? We can get halfway there before it gets too hot again."

"Sure," came the answer, and Rance stood and pulled Bart unsteadily to his feet.

"You take the saddle. I'll sit behind." It took some effort but Jack managed to get Bart up onto the horse, then mounted behind him. Today was cooler; at least it seemed that way, and they kept riding until almost dusk, when the town of Hurley finally came into sight.

"You still with me, gamblin' man?" the sheriff asked.

"Mmmf," was the only answer Maverick gave. Rance pulled his horse up in front of Doc McNulty's office and slid down.

"Let's get you down here." Bart did his best to accommodate the sheriff, and once he got his right leg over the saddle he dropped to the ground. Rance was there to steady him and helped get him into the doctor's office.

Doc McNulty was middle-aged, with hair that had just started to turn gray, and a cheerful smile when he saw Jack. "Well, Jack Rance, just a little out of your territory, aren't you? Since I don't see handcuffs I assume you haven't come all this way to bring me a prisoner, now have you?" Bart stumbled and Doc grabbed him on the right side, Jack already holding him carefully on the left side. "What happened?"

"This is Bart Maverick, Doc. Called out a pair a card cheats in Bayard and one of 'em followed him an tried to kill him. Found him out in the desert after his horse broke a leg."

"And the card cheats? They still after him?"

Rance shook his head. "Both dead. I killed one, Maverick killed the other one. Wounds not too bad, Doc, but he was out of water for a couple days before I found him. Take care of him, huh? I'm goin' over to see Willy Adams, I'll be back in a while."

As the sheriff turned to go back outside the gambler grabbed his arm. "Jack?" he asked weakly. "Thanks."

"No problem. I'll bring the sheriff back down with me."

XXXXXXXX

When Bayard's sheriff returned to Doc McNulty's office, he brought Hurley's sheriff, Willy Adams, with him. The doctor had finished treating Bart's shoulder and gotten him to sleep for an hour, and the gambler had begun to feel human again. "Bart Maverick, Sheriff Willy Adams. Maverick's the man that blew the whistle on our two saddle tramps card schemes, and Taft decided payback was in order. That's the one I killed in Bayard. Jessup chose to take up where Taft left off and lit out across the desert to finish it. Maverick can tell ya the rest."

Bart and Adams shook hands, and Bart nodded. "Not much else to tell. My horse went down and I set out on foot for Hurley. First thing I knew of Jessup chasin' me was the night he shot me. I had a small amount of cover behind some rocks; Jessup didn't, and I musta hit him with the rifle shot. I was headed back towards him when he killed his horse and emptied his canteen. Wanted to make sure I ended up dead out there with him. If it hadn't been for Jack, I would have."

Willy Adams was older than Jack Rance, shorter and stockier, with a heavy mustache and weather-toughened hands. He had kind eyes and a smoky, soft voice, and a way of speaking that let you know he believed what you were telling him. "Yeah, they were here about six months ago. I ran 'em outta town soon as we caught on to 'em; not surprised to hear they're dead. I'll write up a report and you can sign it for me. Two less saddle tramps to steal from decent folk. You plannin' on stayin' in Hurley long?"

"Couple days," the gambler answered. "Long enough to rest up and buy another horse. Then I'm on to El Paso, supposed to meet somebody there."

Adams nodded. "Come on down to the office before you leave and I'll have that statement ready for ya. Jack, you headed back to Bayard?"

"Not until he's let me buy him breakfast, I hope. It's the least I can do," Bart stated firmly. "Thanks enough for savin' my life."

"Yeah, I'll stay till mornin'. Let's get you over to the hotel and get us both a room for the night," the Bayard sheriff answered. "Then I can head back tomorrow."

"Sounds like a good idea to me." Bart sat up and swung his legs down onto the ground and was forced into remembering the sprained foot and ankle as soon as he put weight on it. Jack reached out an arm to steady Bart and helped him across the room and out the doors to Doc's office, then stayed with him down the boardwalk and across the street to the hotel. Maverick was thankful for the help.

The next morning Bart and Jack ate breakfast at the hotel, Bart buying as he had promised. They spent a pleasant hour talking and found they weren't so very different, after all. When the meal was finished Bart expressed his thanks again, and the lawman mounted his horse and headed back to Bayard with enough food and water to get him there. The gambler walked carefully down to Sheriff Adam's office and signed the report that had been written explaining the entire Taft-Jessup affair. When everything was completed, Willy Adams asked Bart an unexpected question. "Where do you want the reward sent?"

"Reward? What reward?"

"You mean you didn't know?" came the sheriff's next question. "There was a one-thousand dollar reward on those two crooks. Seems they been runnin' crazy in New Mexico for the last year or so swindlin' folks. This wasn't the first time they got in trouble." He paused. "So where do you want me to send it?"

Bart thought for just a moment before the answer came to him. "Send it to Jack Rance in Bayard, with my thanks."

"You sure?" Adams asked. "Awful big thank-you just for doin' his job."

"Not just for doin' his job, sheriff. For goin' outta his way to save my life when he didn't have to."

"You got it, Maverick. I'm sure Jack'll appreciate it."

Bart grinned, beginning to feel more like himself than he had in days. "Not nearly as much as I do."