Double update because I was so sick yesterday!

Eli Ransom was the half-breed son of a Lipan Apache warrior and a captive half-Mexican half-French woman, though no one really knew the truth behind those circumstances. Folks said he was raised among the Apache until he was nearly twelve and well on his way to being a full-on brave. Then his mother finally escaped her captors and took young Eli with her.

The nearest outpost was , stationed near the gulf in the Republic of Texas. She made her way there, despite Indian pursuit, desert heat, and bad blood between the Mexicans and Americans. Four days after reaching the fort, she died, her abused body weak from thirst and hunger. Young Eli was left to his own devices.

Established in 1825 by José Carbajal, the fort was named for the Lipan Apache Indians, who had long used the site as an ancestral campground. Prior to Carbajal's fort, an old presidio stood there back in 1734, but it was completely gone by the time Fort Lipantitlan was built.

Initially a simple embankment of earth with cannons mounted on each of the four parapets, simple fence-rails lined the fort's perimeter. Later, several buildings and at least one barracks were built surrounding the embankments. I'd heard it was garrisoned with as many as eighty to one hundred and twenty soldiers at any given time.

Young Eli stayed with the Mexican army stationed there, becoming a scout. He served for some years before leaving to make his own way. Making big tracks on the country, many people got to know the name Eli Ransom. Riding on both sides of the law, he made a name for himself as being good with a gun and short on patience. Despite his murky reputation, when he hired on for a job, he rode true.

It paved the way for much of his accomplishments. Brave, honest men were in demand all over the country, regardless of their past. Riding shotgun for the budding stage lines he had a short career as a payroll guard for Wells Fargo. Not a single stage he rode lost their cargo. Then happened the now famous story of the fatal showdown with Blackjack Barlow in New Orleans.

I knew the story by heart, as Smitty had told it to me many times over the flickering light of the campfires. Eli Ransom, now a young man of twenty-one, was quiet, with keen eyes, two good ears, but a closed mouth. He kept to himself, listening far more than talking. Not known to hunt trouble, never did he run from it. All who knew his reputation knew Eli Ransom stood his ground, shoving back hard when he was pushed.

Blackjack was a bully, a hired gun, and a mean drunk. That night he'd been drinking aplenty. When Eli pushed through the batwing doors, Blackjack turned his eyes on the young man and thought he saw an easy mark. He had no use for Indians, especially their half-breed whelps.

Eli Ransom was a strapping figure by then, tall with makings of a deep chest and broad shoulders. He'd seen a good deal, despite his youth, sometimes surviving only by his wit and the speed of his horse. Though not well known by his face, his name carried the reputation of being smooth with a gun as well. He noticed Blackjack's menacing look, but readily dismissed him. He wanted only a place to sit and drink.

As it turned out he was offered both by lovely Miss Susie Walsh, a saloon girl locally known to be Blackjack's woman. Eli only saw a lovely blonde with big blue eyes smiling at him, and he dropped into the chair she offered returning the grin. Neither of them paid any mind to Blackjack, whose face went red with anger, his close-set eyes sparking fire.

Blackjack may have been a short-tempered man but he was not reckless, and he waited with simmering fury while Eli enjoyed his drink, and his companion. Less than an hour later, instead of taking the girl upstairs, Eli slipped her out the back door, gone before anyone really noticed. Blackjack almost lost it when he saw they had vanished, and took off after them, spoiling for trouble. No one thought to tell him it was Susie's job, Eli was a half-breed after all, what did they care?

It was silent for a good spell then they heard the shrill sound of a woman's screams and the heated voices of men arguing, and then a long silence. Of a sudden, loud gunshots rang out, BAM BAM then BAM! Every head in the bar turned toward the doors, waiting for Barlow to return triumphant with Susie in tow, but he did not come. Two minutes passed, then five, and finally the double doors slammed open, but it was not Barlow. It was young Charlie Finch from the barber shop, and his face was white with shock.

"Blackjack is dead!" he shouted, out of breath.

As one man they rushed to scene. Blackjack lay face up, punched through with two tightly grouped slugs, his face beaten to a pulp. Susie was standing by, hair wild, her dress torn open, stark fear in her eyes, but she said not a word. Eli Ransom was nowhere to be found, and some said they'd seen him lite out fast. Susie Walsh could not be made to speak a word of what happened, or why she was in such a battered state, she only sat mute and trembling. Not long after that, she disappeared.

Such was the feeling against Indians and their like at the time, the general consensus was that Eli had got rough with Susie, and then beat up and killed Barlow when he tried to intervene. True or not, the story grew and spread, adding darkness to the already black legend that was Eli Ransom. No one ever heard tell of the half-breed trying to deny it either.

Lying in the darkness, remembering Smitty tell me the tale in that ghostlike voice of his, shivers traveled my spine. Suddenly I realized why Poke had spoken the way he did that morning, because no one other than Susie, Ranse, and Barlow really knew the truth of that night. Everyone else only had suspicions and speculation. Yet Joss obviously knew of Eli Ransom, and he was willing to trust my keep in Ranse's hands.

The familiar smell of Ranse's tobacco woke me the next morning. Blinking my eyes open revealed him sitting close by my bed, smoking and watching me sleep. For an instant it was in me to speak of what I'd heard last night, but just as quickly I decided to let it lie. Ranse had done me no wrong, so why judge him on hearsay and stories?

"Where's Joss?" I murmured sleepily, rubbing my eyes.

"He took off at first light, said I should tell you he was sorry he couldn't stay, but he'd look you up in Blue Water when he could."

"He didn't say goodbye?" crushing disappointment swept through me as I sat up, gingerly hugging my healing arm. "He's really gone?"

"Some menfolk don't take to saying goodbye, Lilli."

It was as good an explanation as any, so I nodded. I'd lived without family for long years, I could do so now. Swinging my feet from the bed I carefully stood and brushed out my clothing with my right hand. It had become habit to sleep fully dressed.

"Are you gonna- I mean, going to hunt down our breakfast?" I asked.

"No," at his tone I looked curiously at Ranse, but he grinned at me. "Stone is a generous man. I told him we didn't need it, but he left us two pounds of bacon, four pounds of beans, a pound of flour and a whole shank of wild sheep. There was also a large sack of dried apricots."

Smiling widely, I suppressed a giggle. How like Joss, I thought. How much I'd miss him!

We stayed at the well-hidden cabin for nigh on three months, until I was well healed and could move freely without much pain. Ranse was right though. My leg never did heal sound. I had a somewhat pronounced limp, though I could walk well enough. During that time, we had five different men come through to stay and rest. Two were outlaws, two were prospectors, and one was a drifter.

As Ranse suggested, I never spoke a word about our standing, letting each one decide for himself. Whatever their opinion they kept it to themselves and treated me with dignity and respect. We all shared our supplies and never ran out. I found visitors a good source of information, as they heard all sorts of news when out about in the country. There was no word of Joss.

The morning we packed up and left, the drifter was at the door, watching us ride away. He'd ridden in on a fine appaloosa stallion, and had a quiet way about him, an easy friendliness in his eyes. Although not offering his name, it would be many years before I'd forget the cornflower blue of his eyes, and the deep chestnut mahogany of his hair. Had I not already been persuaded toward a specific type of man, I would have thought him very handsome.

Twin revolvers hung at his hips, tied down. Though he moved with ease and grace he was about as passive as a coiled rattler. In that way, he and Ranse were very much alike.

I suspected my companion knew who he was, but he held his peace, and I didn't ask. What difference did it make anyway? We were on our way once more. It hadn't snowed in over a week, spring was coming, and I was looking forward to the change in seasons. Ranse said it would be early summer when we reached Blue Water, and we'd see it first in all its beauty.

It took almost a month to get there, but what a month! We had two rabid wolves, and one hunger mad mountain lion that stalked us like dark phantoms. After Ranse shot him, we discovered a slew of porcupine quills in the lion's face and paw. He must have been in great pain for a long while, starving and desperate for food. We lost the chestnut pack horse to slippery talus, two of his legs breaking in the slide. Ranse shot him, dividing the meat and supplies onto our own horses.

Twice we were caught in the bloody wars raged between the Cheyenne and Crow, barely escaping with our lives. Once Ranse got bit by a surly rattlesnake, his hand swellin' black and purple. It scared me good, but he knew how to battle the venom, keeping his hand and fingers. The snake didn't keep his skin, or his rattle for that matter. Ranse made it into a snakeskin bracelet that I wore around my wrist. By the end of that last leg of travel, we'd begun to look like bedraggled survivors of a drawn-out war.

Mounting the rise that overlooked Blue Water, I couldn't help but laugh with relief. Behind us was Hell Gate, lying at the western end of the Missoula Valley, nestled on the banks of the Clark Fork River. Framed by the Rattlesnake Mountains to the north and northeast, the Bitterroot Mountains edged around the other side. A narrow pass between two mountain peaks, which leads to Hellgate Canyon, defined the eastern mouth of the valley. The western mouth was less well defined and narrow, leading to Ninemile Divide.

Members of the Bitterroot Salish (or Flathead) tribe often traveled through the Missoula Valley on their way east to bison hunting grounds, or so Ranse told me. As the Salish passed through the valley's narrow eastern and western mouths, members of the Blackfeet tribe would often attack and kill them. The Salish called the valley lm-i-sul-étiku, which means "by the cold, chilling waters" but which the Salish used figuratively to mean "the place chilled with fear". The entire valley was heavily wooded, and ideal for ambush. It was to my immense relief that Blue Water valley was beyond the shadows of Hell Gate.

High in altitude, it offered a wide variety of trees and I could see lodgepole pine, Douglas fir, larch, spruce, aspen, birch, hemlock, ash, and cottonwood. Tucked everywhere like small bursts of color were bitterroots, daisies, lupins, poppies, primroses, and of course, lilies. Sun sparkled on the water of a gently winding river, the ripple of mild rapids visible from where we were. There were several places where the water turned inward, forming shallow pools of still water, framed by reeds and long grasses. This was it, this was home!

Making our cautious way to the valley floor, we took care not to slip off the steep trail or have the horses lose footing on the loose stones and broken granite. The valley floor was lush with thick green grass, wild scrub brush, and feathery alpine ferns, and it was flat all the way around, sitting in a bowl framed by trees. During the heavy snows it may be a bit difficult to manage, but in the summer months, I could not imagine a more desirable residence.

"Look at this place!" Slipping from the mare's back to lead her along, I ran my fingers through the grass. "Can you picture anything more perfect?"

"It's quite a sight," Ranse agreed, looking around as he stepped from leather. "I wonder if Ash ever..."

I quickly looked when he stopped talking, turning to see what he was staring at. My heart gave a jump then I began laughing, a loud full laugh that sprang from deep inside me. Judd had thought of it all! Already built and standing solid, a stone cabin, large, with a thick clay roof was nestled in among the thick stand of aspens and hemlock. There was a water pump just outside the front door, with a large bucket underneath it.

Off to the left about a dozen steps was a corral that could hold roughly thirty head of horses. Behind that, in a cleared area was the stable, made by the same careful hands. Where Judd ever got the stones to make the buildings I never will know, but he knew what he was doing.

Ranse was undeniably impressed by Judd's shrewd skill and forethought, and I was struck by the man's expertise. I did not know what it was he had been before taking up the life of a wanted man, but Judd built with knowledge and planning. Here, in this hidden paradise, he had known I would be safe and sheltered, and he left me the creation of his own hands and sweat. With an almost reverent attitude I went to the cabin and opened the door.

It swung open on silent hinges, revealing a large front room, the walls lined with bunks for a great many men to sleep. The fireplace was large and well placed, the windows also well positioned, but not too large. Notches were in the walls at ideal locations for the barrel of a rifle or gun to shove through, and I smiled. Leave it to Judd to plan to defend this place.

The kitchen was off the one side, cupboards made by hand and skillfully done, counters big enough to handle a large meal. The stove was old, but aside from the thick layer of dust, it was well made. A good-sized pantry stood in the corner, and I briefly glanced at the shelves. All empty. Well...what had I expected anyhow? At least the house was sound. It felt safe.