Hope you don't mind the long chapter...

Long, hot days later found him leaving the mountain range behind to enter the lowlands leading toward White Rock. It was a small town, but it had a saloon and a bathhouse. In his travels, Red had been through once before. His shirt was stiff with sweat and dust, and he was tired of being covered in dirt. Thick stubble coated his jaw, and his hair was long overdue for a cut.

Fastidious wasn't a term most would use to describe him, but after being hunted like an animal for some time now, he wanted to feel human. Figuring to sell the rifle, Red was hoping to get enough money for a meal, a bed, and a few simple comforts. Pausing in the shadow of a large fir tree, keen blue eyes studied the wide-open space before him. White Rock was a hazy outline in the distance, about fifteen miles still. In the full heat of summer, he didn't want to make that trip in the daylight, deciding to rest up until twilight.

Following a narrow gully that ended at a small spring, he settled down to eat the last of the carefully packed food. Upending the burlap sack, he let the contents spill on the ground. A soft leather bag hit with a distinctive rattle, and he frowned not having noticed it before. Shaking it softly, he felt the contents jingle inside. Untying the pouch, he shook the bag gently, staring openmouthed when five golden coins dropped into his hand.

Solid gold Double Eagle coins, worth twenty dollars each. He was holding one hundred dollars in the palm of his hand! Suddenly Travis was cold.

It was real. Faith had the Wildcat treasure! Licking dry lips, heart thudding, he tried to think rationally. Maybe it wasn't the famed treasure. It could be she got a hold of these somewhere else, like... His active, experienced mind went blank. Where else could a woman like Faith have gotten five double eagles?

A hermit, avoiding people and towns as much as possible, any other explanation didn't make sense. Then why would she have put the coins in the sack for him? Frowning, he studied on that a bit. Did she do it on purpose? Maybe the pouch of coins had been left in the sack by accident, so when she packed it-

"Blast it all to the Devil," he muttered, putting the coins back in the pouch. She'd known. Faith was too careful, too precise to make such a mistake. So why had she done it? Simply to help him out, because he was too broke without them? In that case, one would have been more than enough, but five?

"Gonna get me killed for sure,"

With hired killers on his track, men with little values and less morals, money was the last thing he needed. Especially treasure money. If they should catch him with this- stuffing the pouch hastily back in the burlap sack, he glanced around. As though someone might come upon him any moment and realize what he had.

"Girl, why'd you go and do that?" Wondering aloud, he shook his head, not realizing he was smiling too. Many a long year had passed since anyone had looked out for him. The feeling was nice.

After finishing off what Faith had made for him, Red settled back among the leaves of dense brush. Tucked in his blanket, belly full, he began to nod off. A nap would take him into the twilight hours, then he'd reach White Rock sometime before midnight. That didn't happen quite how he planned.

When next he opened his eyes, the moon was high in the sky and darkness had long since fallen. He had been more tired than he thought.

Back on foot, staying ahead of a dozen mounted horsemen had taken much of the strength he had regained after the fight with Jet Fennel. Making certain to leave some of his tracks in plain sight, Travis had made a path leading away from Faith and her secluded valley. He wanted the hired guns on his trail, not hers. The very idea they might find her up there, alone, made his temper flare.

Getting stiffly to his feet, he rolled the blanket, stuffing it into the sack. Before heading off, he picked up the rifle, checking the barrel and load to make sure it was clean and ready. Cramped and sore from sleeping, his gait was a little unsteady, but he knew a long walk would loosen his muscles.

The night was cool, but not unpleasant and his stride grew long and easy. Faith had been right in her assessment of him. Travis had spent a long portion of his youth on foot. If a body wanted to go somewhere, walking was usually the only way to get there. A horse would only get in his way back home. The Rivers family had spread out and though he'd grown up in the rugged Boston Plateau, some of his brothers and uncles had settled into Springfield and Salem plateaus. It was a hard life, but the wild land was beautiful and untamed, offering much in the way of experience and challenges.

It wasn't until he took off at sixteen that he had become a rider, and a known gunslinger. Though aware of the outrageous number of killings he was credited with, Travis kept the real number to himself. In truth, the total was slightly over half of what was generally rumored. Pride isn't what kept the count accurate, for his feeling toward the whole matter was disgust. The face of each man shot down was burned into his memory.

A waste.

Travis always had an innate ability when it came to guns. He could hit anything he aimed at and after he turned eleven, he never ever missed. Even as a boy his hands were like magic, the pistols seeming to just appear without real thought. By the time he'd turned seventeen he'd begun to wear his pistols in hip holsters rather than behind his belt. A fairly recent development, he found it aided him in a quick draw, which was also a new phenomenon of his time.

Leaving home, fresh-faced and young, he'd been braced by men wanting to pick a fight, figuring him an easy mark. Being inexperienced, he'd accepted the challenges, shooting them without realizing what the long reaching consequences would be. Though each encounter had been in self-defense, his fame grew. More reputation seekers came to face him, hoping to be the one to be known for taking him down.

What had started as something exceptional in his life had quickly turned into a curse. Travis Rivers shifted into a man who lived by the gun while others died by it. At first, he'd wanted to go home, but somehow it didn't seem like the kind of thing his father would approve of. How to explain to the man who'd raised him that he'd stopped being merciful? That it'd been easier, safer, to take a life?

Accepting the hand dealt to him, Red let the chips fall where they may. He also never spoke of his family or home, not wishing for any of his troubles to find their way to those he loved. If any enemy of his made the pilgrimage into the Ozarks looking for a fight, the Rivers men would be more than happy to oblige him. Only the foolhardy or ignorant picked a quarrel where none was necessary. Those ones were buried deep, their things sent home to loved ones, if they had such.

It was after midnight when Rivers came to the edge of town. Stepping into the shadow of the livery stable, his eyes swept in the street and the buildings. It was a one street town, with a post office, a supply store, a bank, a saloon, and a hotel. Not many people were out and about at this hour, most of the noise coming from the saloon. The horses tied outside were not familiar, and looking casually around inside, none of the faces jumped out at him.

If Ludlow and Barnes were headed this way, he had gotten here first. The idea of surprising them made him smile.

Pushing through the double swinging doors he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. A growth of stubble darkened his jaw. Dusty and trail worn; his hard-won bruises showed through his tan skin. The stitching Faith had put on his split cheek was still there and he admired her work. The rope burn on his neck had healed and was barely noticeable. Still, Red had to admit, he looked like he'd been dragged over a hill and then some.

Going to the bar he quietly ordered a whiskey, drinking it slowly. The burn of cheap alcohol soothed his dry throat. Nodding for another, he turned to lean on the bar as his eyes studied the room.

The men here looked decent and hardworking, drinking quietly while they played poker, or nursing their glasses at the bar. A few were interested in the women that made rounds of the room. Leaving tempting kisses here and there, they whispered into the ears of the men at the tables. As he watched, a lovely blond approached him, her soft looking lips painted red, large green eyes rimmed with thick lashes. Gentle hands slid around his shoulders, her perfume filling his nostrils as she murmured tenderly in his ear.

Warm and feminine, fitting smoothly against his lean frame, she didn't care a bit that he was somewhat used and savage looking. It was mighty tempting, but with a soft reply, he removed her hands. Smiling sadly, she turned away, the sway of her hips provocative. A gentle punishment for refusal and he grinned, rubbing his jaw. It wasn't aversion to girls like her that made him uninterested.

Another blond was on his mind now, and she had serious gray eyes. He wanted to hold onto the memory of her for a while. Finishing his whiskey Red set the glass on the bar, dropping a gold coin down with it. The bartender's eyes bulged a little but he said nothing, slowly shifting his gaze to Rivers'.

"The hotel any good?"

"Yeah, run by an elderly lady and her brother. They keep it clean and serve breakfast for the visitors."

Red lowered his voice a hair more.

"Been many strangers in lately?"

"Aside from you?" The bartender glanced around the room slyly. "No, but I hear we got some hired guns comin' through, on the hunt for a murderer from Tucson, salty crowd from what I hear."

"Names?" Rivers fingered the gold coin he had dropped, shifting it slightly between him and the bartender. The man licked suddenly dry lips.

"Ludlow, Mead and Stone, Hick Byers, Milt, Ned Varny, plus a bunch of local guns."

"Pat Barnes?" Rivers inquired.

"No, not that I heard." His response was honest.

Red flicked the coin across the counter and straightened up.

"Much obliged." Taking the change, he picked up his burlap sack.

Without a backward glance he headed across the street to the hotel. That had been a calculated risk. Most men had never even seen a gold coin, let alone a double eagle. The bartender would remember who gave it to him. Maybe it'd take some heat off Faith, by giving treasure hunters another body to go after.

The door of the hotel was unlocked so he stepped inside, the lobby clean and spacious. A faint smell of disinfectant hung in the air, but at least it was clean. Light shone from beneath what he assumed was an office door, so he hit the desk bell once, firmly. The echo faded as shuffling came from beyond the door. It cracked open and a man in his mid-fifties popped his head out.

"Can I help you?"

River assumed the reason was fairly obvious, but he played along.

"Need a room if you got one to spare."

"Fill out the register, I'll be right out." The door shut with a snap, and he heard the man grumble about guests showing up at all hours. When a feminine voice answered, Travis paused, lips quirking in a grin. No wonder the fella was so techy. Company of the female variety would be kept waiting now.

Spinning the register book around he wrote Travis Rivers, lately out of Texas, in a smooth sure hand. Waiting for the door to open again, his curiosity grew with his temper. What the blazes was - the man came out buttoning his pants and hastily tucking in his shirt. Realizing why there'd been a delay he kept the soft chuckle to himself. Some guys just couldn't wait.

Catching movement over the clerk's shoulder, he saw a girl slipping a dress on over bare skin, tucking folds of bills in the fabric. Well now, stroking his chin to keep from snorting, he cleared his throat. Maybe it was the girl that wasn't going to wait. Time was money. Glancing irritably at his signature, the man reached for a key.

"Last door on the left, top of the stairs. Breakfast is at seven, dinner at five. Two dollars a week."

Travis blinked in surprise.

"I don't intend to stay a week," Once the words were out though he hesitated. Who knows, he might.

"Excuse me sir, I apologize. By the night is a different rate, I can..."

"No, don't fuss about it. I may stay the week at that. If not, I'll settle with you before I go."

Without waiting for a reply Rivers headed up the stairs and went to the last door on the left. The key clicked over and the door opened. The names the barkeep had mentioned returned to mind. He knew each one, either by reputation or personal experience. Manhunters, bounty hunters, hired guns, expert trackers, and all-around tough men with bark on.

Not a quitter in the bunch. They rode for the money, the fame, and the bragging rights. No one would stop until his neck was fitted in a noose, or he'd soaked up more lead than he could digest. Either way, there wasn't a way out...not anymore. Not that many people would care if he swung or ended shot full of holes.

Such was the way of gunfighters.

Locking the door behind him, without bothering to strip he tugged off his boots and collapsed across the bed. As his eyes closed, he thought for the hundredth time of lush blond hair, large gray eyes, and soft full lips. A puzzle. A beautiful puzzle. Then he remembered the gold coins and frowned.

"Faith, why'd you go and do that,"

Sleep came before the answer did.

When he left the room the next morning, he found the lobby alive with hotel guests. All were waiting for the kitchen to open. He spotted the man who had checked him in last night and inquired about the bathhouse. With an irritable scowl, still not having forgiven the nocturnal interruption, he pointed Travis in the right direction.

This early in the morning, only the shop keepers were out, opening their businesses and sweeping their walks clean from the night. He nodded briefly at the few who greeted him and stepped into the hot moist air of the bathhouse.

Forty minutes later he emerged feeling a new man. He had washed and scrubbed, shaved, and gotten a haircut. The gash on his cheek was healing into a thin scab and swelling in his face had all but gone. Faith had done well by him. The fella running the bathhouse had loaned him some scissors to snip the stiches out.

Though hungry, he didn't want to eat until he'd done something about the condition of his clothes. He went across to the general store and inquired within. Soon he had a pair of new black jeans, three shirts draped over his arm, and a new black hat pulled low over his eyes. After a visit to the gun smith, twin revolvers were strapped to his hips, loaded and ready.

More golden eagles had flown the coop. More crumbs that would lead fortune seekers along his trail, and away from Faith.

Quickly going to his room Red opened the door quietly with his left hand, waiting a moment before slipping inside. With killers on his trail, it was never out of bounds to be careful. Shedding his worn clothes to pull on his new ones, he immediately realized he should have grabbed a new pair of boots while he was at it. Shrugging, he tucked in the new shirt and strapped the gun belts on, tying the holsters down. It had been some time since he'd felt this fresh.

He was ready.

The kitchen was emptying out when he arrived, and Red was just in time to get the last plate. It was layered with hot eggs and steak, biscuits and gravy piled on top, with the strong black coffee piping hot. Choosing a seat where he could see both street and door, he settled down to appreciate the food. It was hot, and after several days on his own eating dry biscuits and jerked meat, he thought himself in heaven. Still, not as good as Faith's.

He was on his third cup of coffee when they rode in and pulled up across the street. Tying their horses to the hitching rails the three of them looked casually around before going into the saloon. Ludlow, Mead, and Stone. The rest must've hung back from town in case they flushed him out. Like fishing in a barrel.

Pushing back in his chair Red figured he had ten minutes at the most before they knew he was staying at the hotel and came spoiling for a fight. Well, Mead might anyhow; he had always favored the frontal approach. Stone and Ludlow were Indian fighters, choosing their battle ground carefully and springing the trap when you least expected it. Well, no use waiting for them to make their move. Travis had never been one to sit around waiting for something to happen, and it was a trait he shared with his brother Liam.

He recalled the time they been out after bear, and they'd run afoul of the other family who'd taken up residence some twenty miles from the Rivers' home. The Pollock's were a feudal clan, and the two oldest boys had decided it was open season on all Rivers. Liam had let them have their say then he'd opened up on them with his rifle, dropping the first one while the second clawed for his pistol. Both were returned home for burial. The upshot of the encounter was the Pollock's learned to keep their distance unless they were prepared to ante up in blood. Smiling at the memory Travis stood up and dropped a few small coins on the table, settling his new black hat low over his eyes.

It was time to remind them who they were up against, and what bringing his death would cost them.

The sun was hot on his back as he stepped into the street heading for the saloon. He had not taken more than five steps when the doors swung open and Ludlow moved down into the street, a cigarette in his mouth. Stopping cold when he saw Rivers, the man's eyes widened in surprise.

"You thinkin' you'd have to come huntin' me, Ludlow?" His voice carried easily. "Well today is your lucky day! Here I am!"

Ludlow glanced around quickly, seeking a way out. He had been hired to kill Red Rivers but had no intention of facing the man in a draw. That was suicide. Rivers took a step toward him, his eyes burning brightly.

"What's a matter, Coyote? Not brave enough to face a man, only wantin' to hit him from behind?" Deliberately, Red taunted him.

The insult snapped Ludlow rigid and his hand automatically lifted toward his gun, but he caught himself in time. Challenging Red with guns was like baiting a raging bull with a twig.

"I got nothin' personal against you, Red. I was hired, straight an' honest. Just came into town for a drink."

"Well now, that's a real shame Isaac," Rivers spoke conversationally. "Every time I stop off for a drink, some low down, no account, loudmouth braggart with a gun decides to horn in. Gets under a man's skin after a while, Ludlow, always knowing that death is waiting just around the corner. You know what I mean?"

Though the words were soft, there was an edge behind them that set Ludlow's heart racing, his palms suddenly slick. There it was, Red had laid it out right in front of him. The veiled threat was meant to challenge him, to push him into a confrontation.

Isaac realized he was not walking away from this. Red was going to keep pushing, keep taunting, until he went for his gun. Taking in a deep breath before flicking the cigarette from his mouth, he blew smoke slowly to buy time.

"You look spry for a hunted man. Gotcha a new outfit, huh?" Ludlow was stalling, trying to calm his nerves. "Life on the run ain't slowed you down too much."

With a cold smile, Red decided to play along. Grant a dead man his last wish.

"Yup, this'll do 'till I get my old rig back. You do know where it is, right Isaac? Maybe you best tell me now, in case you can't later." His thinly veiled threat was well played. Ludlow paled.

"What happened with that ain't my fault, Red! I told 'em they should just leave it be, but they wouldn't!"

"Leave what be, Isaac?" Staying outwardly calm, he felt the familiar burn of rage flare in his chest.

"They killed your appaloosa, and set fire to your rig, everything! What didn't burn was ruined. Barnes thought it would send the right message, and Fennell said we should go along with it, you were dead anyway. It wasn't my idea!"

For a full minute Rivers looked at him, those blue eyes flat and cold. That mustang had been his best horse, a fine stallion with bottomless speed, heaps of sand, and the loyalty of a hound dog. The guns had belonged to his father; they were the same pistols he'd left home with all those long years ago. Cold fury flamed in his eyes, and he shifted slightly. Standing tall, the new black hat pulled low over vivid blue eyes, the grim set of his jaw indicated he wasn't going to be merciful.

Carrying the distinct look of a hunter, Red made an imposing figure in the hot, sun scorched street. Broad shoulders filled out the new shirt, the fabric slightly hugging his chest. Tapering down to a flat stomach, muscled hips, and strong legs, he stood like a mighty oak. Long fingered hands hovered loose and relaxed over the walnut handles of twin colt revolvers. Everything about him screamed gunfighter and death bringer.

The man across from him stood anxious and sweating. Isaac Ludlow was a hired gun. Though fast enough for most jobs, he knew when he was outmatched. Never did he put himself in the class of the man who braced him now. His intention had been an ambush, but now he was the one caught in a trap. Ludlow remembered all the stories he'd heard about Red Rivers, the men he'd killed, the lightning-fast draw.

A slight, hot breeze picked up a discarded newspaper and carried it down the street. Those who'd seen the confrontation were glued to the walls of the buildings, eyes wide. The hired gun knew his chances were too slim to count on, but he was no coward. This was the job. With a fluid movement he went for his gun.

Red's pistols appeared in his hands without his seeming to move. Twin bullets hammered into Ludlow before he could even finish pulling the pistol from his holster. Hitching up on his toes, the man took two steps forward before pitching forward on his face and lying still. Coolly Red fed shells into the empty chambers and flipped the cylinder closed. Dropping the guns back into their holsters he turned on his heel and walked away.