The buckskin kept on, long after Red ceased paying attention to where they headed. The stallion took him high up into the slopes, moving sure and steady. Opening his eyes when the horse stopped, he saw they had reached a wide stream surrounded by tall mountain peaks and dark alpine trees. The horse was drinking happily, taking slow steps into the water. Swinging out of the saddle, Red crumpled to the ground, his legs refusing to support him.

Shivering in the icy water he bent forward, gratefully taking long swallows, parching the raging thirst that suddenly plagued him. Unable to reach his canteen from where he lay, at the moment he didn't have the strength to attempt getting up. Looking around, his side white hot with pain, Red tried to think of what to do, where to go. Wildcat was out. No way he was leading over a dozen armed and blood hungry killers straight to Faith.

He looked around, his eyes followed the creek upstream. It wound lazily back and forth higher into the crevasses, and he locked in on one. Grabbing the stirrup for support, he pulled himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily. The world tipped drunkenly on its side but somehow he stayed on his feet. Reaching for the saddle horn, it took all his remaining strength to get back into the leather. As if sensing he was injured, the stallion stayed perfectly still, waiting for Red to get set before heading off.

Staying in the running water, Rivers guided the horse up toward the shadow he had spotted. It looked wrong, different from the other dips and crevasses around him. Long shadows surrounded him by the time they reached the cleft, and he found it was a pass leading right through the side of the mountain. It was big enough to enter on horseback if he leaned over the saddle.

The buckskin went through without hesitation, ears stiff, blowing loudly. Red found himself in a small green meadow studded with boulders, at the far end stood a dilapidated shack. Next to it was a small pen that at one time may have served as a poor man's corral. Turning the horse in that direction he made for the shack, his side on fire, his head pounding. Nearly there, he tried stepping from the saddle only to practically fall off the buckskin, grabbing for the pommel for balance. Taking two steps he collapsed into the grass, too weak to move.

When Red opened his eyes again, it was to the darkness of night, and the fresh smell of dirt and grass. He lay face down, his body cold and stiff. Getting to his knees sent a blaze of agony though his side, but he had to get up. He had to get warm and wash out the wound. Standing completely still an arm's length from him, the buckskin was watching with interest. Holding the horses' gaze for a moment, he scowled faintly.

"What are you lookin' at? Never seen a man shot before?" Yet, speaking aloud made him feel foolish and he turned away. He had enough problems without wondering what the stallion was thinking. Forcing himself to his feet, Red doubled over as hot pain sparked across his side.

Swearing under his breath, he tried not to vomit from the intensity of it. Breathing through his mouth, skin slick with sweat, he waited until he could move.

Staggering heavily to the shack, he used the butt of his gun to break the clasp open. The thick scent of dust hit his nostrils, the air inside stale. No one had been here for a very long time. Logs covered in spider webs set stacked by a small hearth, so he built a fire and filled an old pot with the last of his water from the canteen. While it was heating Red went back outside to slowly strip the buckskin of the saddle and bridle. It would have to do, he was unable to rub the stallion down just then.

His side was bleeding again when he turned for the shack. Using an old rickety water pump just outside the door to refill his canteens, he went back inside as the water began to boil. Carefully peeling back the stiffening shirt he saw an open and ugly wound above his hip. The bullet had struck his gun belt exploding a cartridge then glanced upward, cutting a deep furrow through his skin.

The exploded shell had shot the cap off a cartridge, the metal slashing heated iron in the opposite direction from the gunman's bullet. The resulting wound was V-shaped. Though neither was life threatening, they hurt like the blazes and were bleeding freely. He'd have a large scab and a massive bruise while it healed.

Taking off his bandanna, Red carefully dipped it in the hot water and gently bathed the wound, cleaning away blood and debris. Weak and shaking, he knew that he would have to stay here for a while. He had to rest. Only a disproportionate amount of luck would keep them off his track until he could ride again. His smile was crooked, voice hoarse.

"Just need me a little Faith,"

Slowly pulling off his shirt, he tore it into strips and used it to bandage his wound. Tomorrow would tell him if any local plants grew here that would help him heal. For now he wanted sleep.

The sun was bright and clear the next time he opened his eyes. Though he was stiff and very sore, Red felt a little better. He gingerly got to his feet and went out to his gear, pulling the burlap bag free from the saddle and again filling his canteen at the old water pump outside. Rebuilding the fire and making a pot of coffee had him bleeding again. Heating more water, he rewashed the wound and wrapped it in more of his shirt. The coffee was ready by then so he drank his first cup while he fried some bacon. A second cup went with breakfast, and he washed the dry biscuits down with a third cup.

Feeling better Red got up and went out to check on the stallion. The buckskin was grazing contentedly on long grass half a dozen yards from the shack. Finding a small pail he filled it with water and set it in the shade for the horse to drink from. Exhausted, he returned to the fireside, pulling a dusty cot from the corner to sleep on. Setting it up near the fire, he lay down and closed his eyes. Sleeping deeply, he was untroubled by the thought of his killers closing in on him.

For several days he moved very little. Only enough to make food, keep the wound washed and clean, and refill the water bucket for the horse. On the third day he felt strong enough to go out and look for the leaves needed to make a poultice. The leaves identified the ones he wanted. They were a green, semi oblong leaf, wrinkled on top with an almost white underside. About twenty feet from the shack he found several healthy bushes of the right plant.

Reaching inside to the back leaves, gathering a handful of dry foliage, Red crushed them as he walked back to the shack, pressing them into both sides of the hole when he peeled off the bandage. The last of his shirt went to making a clean wrap. He was feeling a little better, his body not craving the prolonged healing deep sleep of the previous days. He was also regaining the stamina he'd used up in running. With its return came the growing urge to end this.

The buckskin was cropping grass as he approached, lifting his head to regard Red as he walked up. A velvety nose snuffled his outstretched hand.

"You saved my hide the other day, boy. I owe you."

Patting the soft fine hair of the horses' neck, he spoke in low tones. The stallion looked right into his eyes the whole time, never shifting, never looking away. Red got the feeling the horse knew exactly what they faced.

"I know it doesn't look likely right now, but I made a solemn promise to get you home again," Red told him. "Wildcat is too nice a spread to leave behind."

As he spoke though, he wasn't thinking of the lush grass or deep waters, but of a woman with smooth skin and soft warm lips. Was it possible she was thinking about him too? With a firm shake of his head, Red dismissed the thought. Now wasn't the time.

Inside he fried more bacon, opening a can of beans while waiting for more coffee to boil. Taking a long swallow from his canteen, he enjoyed the cool fresh water. The wound in his side was less troublesome, which gave him confidence. It had been a long while since he'd last taken a bullet, and Red did not recall that time being any more enjoyable than now. He made a mental note to avoid getting in someone's crosshairs again, after this affair was settled.

Idly, his thoughts wandered back to Faith. Who was she really? How did she come to be all alone in a wild mountain range, guardian of a vast gold treasure? He pondered those questions as he lay back, sipping his coffee, tending the bacon.

Red remembered the Double Eagle coins and pulled one from his pocket, taking a closer look. Faith had sneaked them back into his supplies, which he'd found earlier. Silly girl.

It occurred to him he'd seen something like it once before. Where had he been? Closing his eyes, he tried to remember. The stale smell of sweat and cheap whiskey occurred to him, and suddenly he was certain it was in New Mexico, probably seven or eight years ago.

He'd been about seventeen, out on his own for a while. After a long day in the saddle, he'd pushed into the saloon wanting a drink and rest. At the bar a man had turned a keen eye on him, sizing him up then dismissing him with the same glance. It had slightly rankled Travis, but he let it go, not interested in picking a fight. His first kill was only just under his belt, the man stretched out face up in the dust two days ride back.

The man at the bar swallowed the last of his drink down and flipped a coin at the bartender. It sparkled in the sun as it turned in the air then clattered on the smooth counter, spinning in a lazy circle. The golden coin snagged Travis' attention.

"That's a mighty fine coin, mister." This was from the barkeep.

"Yep, I reckon it is. I know where a whole cache of its brothers is. Treasure money I reckon," he'd been drinking a little too much, for no man in his right senses admits to such a thing aloud. "Someday I aim to go back and pick 'em up."

Travis had kept his head down, his eyes away but he was paying keen attention. Any boy with a spark of adventure would have perked up at the mention of treasure. The tall man with dark black hair left the bar without a backwards glance and Travis had looked after him curiously.

"I wouldn't tangle with him, boy." The friendly eyes of the bartender glinted with warning. "He's an old wolf from the back hills and don't take kindly to eavesdroppers. You mind your business and let him be."

"Who is he?"

"That there was Leroy Diggs. He's plenty mean, and a man that ain't shy of trouble. Mind what I said, boy, you leave him be."

"Where'd he ride in from?"

But the bartender wasn't having it.

"North."

"North where?"

"Just north," Leaning on the polished bar, he'd frowned. "Now forget about it."

Red pondered that memory for a long time, letting it play over in his mind. Leroy Diggs. Over the years that name had gained a dark reputation. Though Red had not personally met him as an adult, he was well aware of the kind of man Diggs was reputed to be. It left much to be desired. A sudden thought occurred to Red and he sat up straight, gasping at the pain in his side.

If Diggs had a Double Eagle exactly the same as now lay in his hand, odds were he got it from the same source. That meant Wildcat, did it not? Then, where did Faith fit in? A growing unease was settling into Red's stomach, a tight feeling that coiled like a serpent around his spine. Diggs had been accused of many things, but as of yet Red had not heard of him abusing women.

Still, with such a man, who really knew for sure? The thought kept nagging at him while he ate. Settling back on the cot to grab a few winks of sleep, he shifted uncomfortably. Crammed into the folds of the worn mattress was an old, leather-bound journal. The edges were frayed, the binding chewed by rats or some such. Flipping open the pages, he found that time had faded the writing. All he could make out were a few letters here and there, but nothing that made sense.

Until he got to the last page, where he read it aloud to himself.

"Going to...come back," he murmured. "...after me an' my partner strike gold..."

It gave him chills as Red closed the journal. Whoever built this place had obviously never returned to it. What about the mentioned gold mine? What if... Frowning, his blue eyes moved to the ceiling. What if this journal belonged to Scott Vine, or his now infamous partner?

That could mean whoever wrote in this journal knew about the treasure, about Wildcat...and Faith. Trouble with that was, no one rumored to be connected to the famous treasure was still alive, so without proof, all he had was a likely guess.

"Tarnation," he breathed softly, feeling a sense of elation. "Wouldn't that be somethin' though."

~~~

They came as he was cinching down the saddle, the buckskin alerting him to their approach. After a number of days holed up here, he had been readying the horse when the stallion lifted his head, ears pricked toward the narrow pass. He blew softly from his nostrils, slightly tossing his head and Red knew. Ready or not, he wasn't alone anymore.

Swinging into the saddle, knowing there was nowhere to hide he pulled the guns from their holsters and let the stallion run. They must have heard him coming, because they were waiting, silent and ready outside the narrow pass. They weren't who Red was expecting. Reining in hard caused the buckskin to skid to a stop, his long front legs leaving the ground as he neighed wildly in protest. Hitting all fours again, Rivers held him still, the revolvers primed and ready in his hands as he came face to face with a group of 33 Connected hands.

They sat quietly facing him, eight men in a semi-circle. Raw power was obvious in the corded muscle of his bare chest despite the bloody bandage. At first, no one moved or spoke. Then the one on a wide paint gelding spoke up.

"You know you're on private land." He was a somewhat older man, weathered, but thick and tough.

"I know." Rivers kept his voice passive but did not lower his guns.

"You the one them fellas been huntin'?" The same man spoke. He seemed to be the leader, the others willing to let him, so Red directed his words to him.

"Maybe. What's it to you?" A belligerent tone crept into his voice. He had limited patience at the moment and wanted to be away.

"Ain't nothin' to me, mister, but this here is 33 Connected range, and the boss don't want no trouble on his land. You brought them hired killers down on us, and they've been causin' havoc with the cattle, with them ridin' rough all over everywhere. We take a dim view of that."

"Seems like an issue to take up with them. Not me."

"I figure if you go, they'll follow," the older man's eyes were firm. "No outside trouble will be tolerated here."

"I got no trouble with you," Red straightened up, staring directly into the man's eyes. "Unless you want to start somethin' with me, you'll stand aside or pull iron."

There was a moment of complete silence then the speaker edged his horse off to one side, making enough room for the buckskin to get by. As Red headed through he was cautious to keep wary eyes on their hands. He was clear and headed off when a hail turned him slightly around. A man on a fine sorrel had followed him, dark eyes fixed on the buckskin.

"That's a fine animal, mister."

"It ain't yours," was Red's flat reply.

"Nope, but I know the gal it belongs to. She's a real good woman. We'd be sorely grieved to find she's been harmed."

Though said softly, Red knew a threat when he heard one. He wasn't upset, only slightly relieved that Faith had solid men who would watch out for her. That meant no matter how this turned out, she'd be looked after.

"It wouldn't sit too well with me either. She is a fine woman, generous and smart. The horse is on loan."

The man considered that for a moment before nodding.

"I suppose that don't surprise me any. Do me a favor though, get off the 33 Connected range. We don't need the kind of trouble Red Rivers always brings with him." With that, the man wheeled around and they were off, no one looking back.

"Well, I figure that's the friendliest sendoff I've ever experienced." Red commented dryly to the buckskin. The stallion kept his opinion to himself.

Nightfall found him crossing the border from 33 Connected range to Wildcat Mountain. He was tired and hungry but hunting for a safe place to spend the night. Among the jagged ledges heading north, the stallion's course abruptly swung off the game trail. The horse pulled hard against him, ignoring the hands on the reins as he pushed through thick brush and tangled tree limbs. Red had to duck down to avoid getting knocked from the saddle.

The buckskin hit a steep rocky slope but did not hesitate, climbing upward, powerful hindquarters thrusting deep into the loose gravel and dust. They reached the top and the stallion dropped down the other side sliding quickly to the deep grass of a small glade. Blowing noisily the horse bobbed his head slightly and headed for a narrow gap in the trees. Realizing his mount knew where he was going Red did nothing but stay in the saddle.

Just the other side of the tree line was a narrow sandy beach completely surrounding a deep pool of water that bubbled from some underground spring. Just beyond the pool was an ancient landslide of boulders that formed a small but comfortably sized shelter. Stepping from the leather Red looked around, admiring the silent beauty of the place. The wind did not reach them here, and the air was still warm though the sun had set. It was a lovely spot, untouched and clean and Travis was a man who liked good country and pristine views.

Pulling the saddle from the horse, Red rubbed him down thoroughly and fed him a dry biscuit. He gathered firewood and stones and soon had a comfortable blaze going just inside the rock shelter. Setting up his blanket far back out of sight, it didn't take long to have coffee and bacon going. Using the keen blade of his knife, he opened one of his last cans of beans. He ate heartily, then heated water to wash out his wound.

It was still tender, and pained him, but was no longer a deep red, nor did it bleed regularly. With no clean cloth to bind it with he left it open. Moving deeper into the shelter he stretched out on his blankets, tired.

He thought back to that day with Lane, and the large male brown bear chasing them both up a tree. Lane was a few years older than he but they'd both been young and poorly armed to deal with a nine-hundred-pound bear. They'd been stuck up in that tree for three hours before they got good and mad and decided to give that old he-devil a taste of Rivers blood. Turned out it gave that bear a fatal case of indigestion and they brought him home, enjoying fine steaks and a fresh bear skin rug. The memory made Red smile and he closed his eyes, recalling that fierce, wild feeling of combat.

'Soon,' he thought, 'very soon, I'll be well enough to bring the fight to those boys. When that happened, all bets are off.'