The old man studied the stranger through the smoke of his campfire. The thick wool jacket seemed too small for his frame, and the grey stripe on his trousers was not from any uniform he was familiar with. He wore a long barreled revolver, the holster hanging right down over his crotch, a flat brimmed black hat, square on his head, and a dirty red neckerchief, covered in dark stains, around his neck. Gnawing on a piece of well-cooked rabbit, the stranger smiled back at his host, indicating a gratitude for his hospitality.

"Haven't run across many folks willin' to share their meal with a stranger." His voice grated in the still night air.

"Bin scourin' these hills for the past forty years. Found it pays to be hospitable, never know when you'll be on the needin' end."

"That's quite a spell. What could keep a man doin' that for so long?"

The old man snorted and poked at the fire with his knife. "Can't really tell ya. One day it was all git go and eager, the next it was habit. Don't even know when it changed."

The stranger tossed the cleaned bone into the fire and licked his fingers, wiping them dry on his pants. "Must've bin somethin' worth stayin' at it for."

The old man peered cautiously through the smoke, sensing a hint of danger in the man's comment. He poured himself another tin of coffee, holding out the pot to the stranger, cautiously accepting his refusal. "In the early years, old Bones and me," he waved the cup toward the ancient mule hobbled nearby, "we managed a decent livin' with some trappin' and pannin'. Time went by, an' jest pokin' around and feedin' oursells seemed to satisfy enough."

"Doncha ever come down outa these hills?"

"Hain't bin to a town since seventy six. Old Bones and me like bein' alone up here. 'Cept acourse the odd time like this." He tried a friendly grin, showing the stranger a mouth with a few scattered and rotten teeth.

"What did you do with all your stuff?" The intensity of the question sent a tremor down the old man's back, and he shifted his position uncomfortably.

"Well uh, the skins I mostly use m'self. Making clothes and sech. The go— the other stuff, well, it jest ain't worth considerin'" He slid his eyes nervously down to the stock of his battered old Enfield, wondering how quickly he could bring it to bear on the stranger.

The sharp click of a hammer brought his head slowly around to face the barrel of the long revolver poking through the wispy smoke of the fire. "I think I'd like to see your ah . . . other stuff."

"J-jest a minute there feller. That ain't no way to repay a man's hospitality."

"You're right ol' timer. Pointing is rude, ain't it? My old mama used to say, Cabel, don't point. It's rude." He scissored himself up from his sitting position and stepped around the fire to stand over the old man.

"C-Cabel? Cable Royce!"

"Heard of me, have you old timer. The voice was flat and cold.

"Well I—"

"What's your name then?"

The old man inched back, sweating. "James- uh, Jimmy. J-Jimmy Widger."

"Bye Jimmy." Cabel lowered the gun and fired straight into the old man's face. The mule suddenly brayed, jerking at its tether and stumbling in the hobble cord.

"Whoa there Bones. Just let me get old Jimmy's bags of that rickety back a yours." Cabel strode over and untied the cloth sacks hanging from the mule's pack. He poked around the other items for a moment, then stepped back. "Guess that's all there is Bones. No need for you to fret any longer. Wide red eyes followed the barrel of the gun as it pressed against the neck. The gun exploded and Bones kicked wildly, crashing sideways in a thrashing heap. "Sorry about that. Thought one woulda done it." Cabel fired again, and the mule fell still. "Now let's just see what friend Jimmy collected over forty years."

*****

Wesley hunkered down on the grassy slope overlooking the valley. A few yards away, his still saddled horse, Dammit, grazed contentedly on patches of sweet grass. Up the hill behind them, a muddy smoke bubbled up from the burning shack, feathery wisps flung away by the damp evening breeze. Wesley stared blankly at the wooden marker standing over the pile of stones he'd gathered for his family's symbolic grave; their mutilated remains incinerated along with the shack and all their belongings.

It had taken six long, lean years to reach this point. Their own land. A chance to fulfill the dream that drove them from the cramped lodgings on the East Coast where scrimping every penny from odd jobs had become an almost unbearable existence. Wesley's skill as a carpenter barely managed to provide enough income for the tiny, single room over the dockside warehouse, which they shared with their two-year old child. Families were leaving the city every day; long trains of wagons filled with determined dreamers, setting out to carve a new existence in the vast spaces of the West. He felt the pull of the rumoured opportunities; tales of gold and silver littering the streams and mountains, of instant strikes that left the miners dizzy with wealth, and land. Government land free for the taking to those who worked hard and earned the benevolence.

Gwen would listen with growing eagerness, as he bombarded her with his own burgeoning enthusiasm, working late into the night, washing and ironing the mounds of take-in clothes. Drained and tired as she was, she still found the strength, late into the night, to share his tender advances, ignited by the fierce anticipation in his determination to follow the dream of a new life in the West. With an old but tired horse, purchased from the local livery in exchange for carpentry work, and a brand new, home made wagon, Gwen, Wesley and their small baby, left their old life a month later with a few supplies and empty pockets. Hearts and minds bursting with the challenge of pursuing their dream. Gwen had been a rock, finding work in every camp and town they passed through. Scraping together enough for a saddle horse and harness to take the strain off their bone weary carthorse, never complaining and always seeing to he and Mark first. The government land in Golden Sky valley was their destination, free to any homesteaders who worked it for a year and could prove continuing sustainability and progress. The Torrances were among the earliest to arrive, choosing a site carefully and setting about staking out their boundaries. Wesley had been determined to succeed, and with Gwen and their now, eight-year-old son, toiled from sun to sun carving out the means to their future. Finally, when the Governor of Danby signed and registered his deed, the overwhelming joy he felt nearly made him cry. Now, crouched before the pile of stones jutting awkwardly out of the hillside, it ran through his veins like a bitter acid; a poison that shriveled his heart and seeped into his brain.

He stumbled forward, choking back a sob, and hung a silver locket and his son's bracelet charm on the corner of the marker. Still clenched in his other hand were the discarded tooth, and the shell casing he'd picked up from beside his wife's body, the initials PBP branding themselves into his sweaty palm. Summoning a shaky breath, he read aloud, the words burned into the rough wood. Gwen and Mark Torrance, Loving family of Wesley. Rest in Piece, knowing I will roam the earth until vengeance frees our souls. A loud, agonizing wail escaped his lips and he sagged to the ground, his wet face buried in trembling hands.

*****