~~Chapter 2

By the time we reached the summit, I was literally at the end of my rope. I hung off Buck, my shins and knees barked and bruised, the arm I tied to my saddle, numb and cold. I was going to send Buck on with a note and my identification and hope that he found the horse's farm – if not to come back for me, but to put him up so he wouldn't freeze to death. I pawed through my saddlebags with frozen fingers.

I had paper but no pencil.

I sank to the ground. I resigned myself to dying here, alone, food for the wolves. I tried to shy Buck away but he only took a couple of sidesteps and stood waiting for me. I slipped into unconsciousness. I don't know how long I was out but fortunately, Buck woke me with a nicker and a burst of warm horse breath straight into my face.

I rolled to my side. I looked down the slope. A small valley sparkled in the last rays of the sun like a jewel box filled with emeralds and gold coins. A cob house was built on a stone shelf at the base of the cliff on the far side of the valley. There was a corral, a barn with an arched door and a garden surrounded by a sapling fence. A small field beyond the barn was divided in half by a low rock wall. In the center of one half was a snow-dusted haystack. The other half held the remnants of a corn harvest. Three goats and a tiny burro grazed in patches of green grass among the broken stalks and melting snow. The little farm was neat as a pin, the ground as clean as if it'd been swept by a broom.

I was pretty sure that I was hallucinating. Or that I was dead and that was where I'd live out eternity.

I blinked and rubbed my eyes but the little farm was still there. Smoke puffed from the chimney in one perfect ball of cotton. I sat for a few minutes and waited for the feeling to return to my arm. I felt faint disappointment that I wasn't in Heaven.

I mounted my horse and started carefully down the incline. It wasn't as steep as the slope we just climbed but there were more trees and the ground was padded with slippery pine needles. It was slow going. By the time I was within shouting distance of the house, sun had sunk behind the cliff. Someone stepped onto the porch and lit a lantern by the door.

The light was as warm and soft as a sigh of relief.

A short-legged, but heavily built dog charged toward us, barking furiously. He circled us, growling and nipping at Buck's ankles. He stopped me in the dooryard, placing himself between me and the house, his head down and his teeth bared. The goats and burro trotted over, stood in a bunch and watched the scene silently.

A boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen stood on the porch. He leveled a shotgun at me. He was bundled in an oversized coat. On his head was a battered felt hat that came down over his ears. I would've been amused were it not for the buffalo gun he pointed unwaveringly at my head.

"Drop your guns on the ground, please," he said.

"I'm -," I started.

"I will send you into the Hereafter without a second thought, sir."

His eyes were steely under the brim of his ridiculously large hat. I fumbled with the buttons on my coat.

"Slowly," said the boy.

I held up my hands.

"My - ." I swallowed painfully. "My fingers are frozen," I said. I pushed at the lapel of my coat with a clawed hand and showed my badge. "My name is Matt Dillon. I'm a U.S. Marshal out of Dodge City."

"You are a very long way from Dodge City."

"I was hunting a murderer."

"Did you capture him?"

"Yes."

"Where is he?"

I let the silence hang in the air.

"How can I know that you are telling me the truth?" the boy asked.

"You can't," I said.

"Keep your hands up."

He walked over and tugged my pistol from its scabbard and tossed it onto the porch. He took my rifle and stepped back, cracking the breach and flipping out the cartridge with his thumbnail, while he held his own rifle tucked in the crook of his elbow - and aimed at me. In spite of the fact that he might yet decide to shoot me, I was impressed. He handled the weapons as well as any experienced gunman.

"Your rifle is recently fired," he said.

"I shot a wolf this morning," I said.

His eyes traveled over my face. He lowered his shotgun slightly. "Are you ill, Marshal?"

"I'd be obliged if your Pa can spare some grain for my horse and I could spend the night in your barn. I'll be on my way by morning," I said, but was seized by a long, ragged bout of coughing that nearly toppled me from my saddle.

The boy regarded me with raised brows. "If you spend the night in our barn, you will be dead by morning," he said.

"The barn will be fine. I can pay."

The boy leaned the shotguns against the porch rail. "I will not have your death on my conscience."

"You just threatened to shoot me without a second thought."

"That was, perhaps, hyperbole." He stepped forward and reached up to help me. The dog barked a warning. "Quiet, Mortimer," said the boy. "Let's get you inside, Mr. Dillon."

I looked him over. His wrists were thin at the end of his sleeves and I could tell that the bulk of his upper body was mostly coat.

"I can manage," I wheezed.

"You are going to fall over, Marshal," said the boy.

"I'm fine."

The boy stepped back. "As you wish."

I swung my leg over Buck's rump. My limbs felt weightless and disconnected from my body. I could see the ground coming up to meet me but was helpless to stop myself falling. I lay on my back, blinking at the sky. Mortimer the dog ambled over, sniffed at me then sneezed. The burro and his chorus of goats seemed to confer with each other for a moment then turned and walked away. The boy stood by with his hands folded behind his back.

"Pride goeth before a -," he said.

"I get it," I snapped.

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