He stood looking after her, the warmth of her lips against his fresh and tingling, her scent filling his nostrils. Heart clapping against his ribs, he swallowed hard. The thoughts stampeding through his mind were wild, unbridled, and not helpful. He had to get a grip. Tossing his head, the buckskin nudged Rivers' arm, startling him back to life. Time was running out.

The shops were open now, so he went to the general store and gathered what few things he'd need for the immediate future. Beyond that he didn't worry about, for it'd be over by then. Food stuffs made to eat on the go, extra ammunition for his rifle and revolvers, and coffee, all went into the burlap sack he'd brought with him. Paying, he slung the bag over his shoulder as he stepped outside.

After a brief inner debate, he headed to the bathhouse next. The old man who ran it must have some information on the old cabin, and who it had belonged to. To discover even a spark of truth regarding the treasure and mystery of Wildcat Mountain was too intriguing to pass by. If he lived, he'd have something to tell Faith. Besides that, the idea of feeling clean and fresh before facing the posse a final time appealed to him.

His body ached and twinges of pain danced through the healing wounds. He was weak, tiring far too easily, and Red knew it was more by luck than by skill that he was still alive. Paying for a room with a private bathing tub, he closed his eyes, letting the hot water and thick steam roll over him. Blast it all, he wanted to live!

Scowling, that day in New Mexico, with Diggs at the bar, bragging about knowing the location of a gold treasure came back to him. What nagged him about it? Something he missed, that he ought to have realized sooner.

Faith's eyes loomed in his mind from that first day, filled with terror and mistrust. She was wary of folks, and he was betting an orphan. If so, who taught her how to shoot, to make poultices, to ride, to track? Someone had to have been there, someone she trusted.

Red slowly sat up as anger began to burn through him. When did he first hear about Diggs? Wasn't it about eight years ago? He had no reputation before that, seemingly to have come from nowhere and then suddenly he was on the map. A vicious hired gun with a short temper. Like a man with a guilty conscience.

Climbing from the tub to grab at a towel, his mind turned over the facts as he dried off, reaching for the probable conclusions, and not liking what he found. Men like Diggs were spurred on by a turning point, on the side of the law by accident until a catalyst pushed them over the line. Faith was beautiful and intoxicating. Once young and innocent, alone in the hills with such a man, with no one to temper her nature and feelings...Red didn't allow himself to finish that thought.

He was going to kill Leroy Diggs.

Dressing quickly, he gathered his things, settling his gun belts around his hips as he reached the door. The bathhouse operator was propped up against the wall chewing tobacco, so Red stopped for a moment. It was now or never, but he must tread lightly. No one liked being pumped for information.

"Been here long, mister?"

"Sonny, I'm 'bout as old as those peaks yonder, an' I never been farther than the livery stable." The old man's voice was rough and squeaky. Red knew the exaggeration was for his benefit.

"You've seen a lot of folk come through here then."

"Yup, some passin' through, some settlin' down to stay."

He phrased his next words carefully.

"The couple that used to live yonder," he indicted the high mountain peaks, "they clear out some time back?"

"Lit out? No boy, no, they were killed." The old man's long-term memory was sharp and he remembered well the couple that made the occasional trip into White Rock. That sweet little girl child. "Their bodies were found about fifteen miles from here, on the other side of those slopes yonder. It was some fight! Them injuns thought they had 'em over a barrel, but she sure showed them!" He cackled with laughter at the thought.

"They were ambushed?" Red was beginning to remember faint rumors of such a story, word being passed on by mouth as far as the Ozarks.

"Ambushed hah! It was a flat-out race! No cover, no choice!" The old man spat into the dirt, his eyes flaring. "That fella didn't last one second after them Indians shot the wagon horses; they took him out with arrows straight to the heart. They musta figured they had the woman, but she sure surprised them! She held her ground and rained down all kinds of misery on 'em! Baker's dozen was found in her when their bodies were discovered, but not one injun was livin'! She took 'em all down with her!"

"Thirteen?" Red tried to picture that kind of woman, standing her ground over the body of her husband. Faith popped into his mind. "You remember their names?"

"Hmm, Ryan I reckon it was. Good folks, decent. He was one tough hombre and had the grit to back it up. She was spirited too, but quiet like, I guess that was her way though, bein' injun an' all."

"She was an Indian?" Rivers was surprised at that. Not many a man would marry a squaw and take her outside her own people. The old man squinted at him.

"Sure she was! He brung her back from Californy. One of them coastal tribes I reckon."

"Did they have a daughter?"

Fry didn't answer right away, finally realizing there was a deeper reason for these questions. His guard went up.

"What's it to you, mister?" He casually evaded the question.

"No skin off me at all, just curious. Heard rumors of the like." Rivers kept his voice neutral and passive, looking back at the old man.

"You should pay no mind to rumors, mister. They ain't nothin' but fluff and blubber." To Red's way of thinking, that meant yes. Why was the man reluctant to admit it?

"Seems a curious thing, if'n they had a girl, for folks to let her grow up alone in the wild."

The old man spat into the dirt again, his eyes cautious and hooded. Red realized the man knew the real truth but was not going to admit to it.

"Could be them injuns took her. Likely thing, with a girl-child."

"Could be," he agreed softly.

"You aimin' to go exploring them peaks, mister? I don't recommend it. More than one man headed up thata way over the years, an' never came back."

"Much obliged for the warning. I ask 'cause I found a journal in an old cabin up in the hills, but couldn't read much of the writing. I got to wonderin' who'd lived there, and why they never come back."

"There's a dozen reasons why folk disappear, young fella. If you ken it was this fella Ryan, you're barkin' up the wrong tree. He didn't come into these here parts until twenty years ago. That cabin been there for near forty."

"You were here?"

"Sure. I sold the-" stopping abruptly, Fry wrenched around, hiding his features. He'd almost said too much!

After near thirty years of minding his own business too! Scott Vine and all his talk of gold! Why had he betrayed Ryan like that? They'd been rich! Swimming in more money than a body could rightly spend in a single lifetime! Thrown away over a moment's greed.

No one knew Edwin Fry had been there that night, that he'd seen with his own two eyes how gold can turn a man's heart black. It was him that had convinced Scott to try gold mining, suggested where to start digging, and that a fella named Ryan would make a solid partner. If he'd known the outcome, he'd never have said a word!

"Sold him what?" Red prompted gently, but the old man had recovered, features blank. When the Ryan's had shown up here for a fresh start, he'd made a promise to never talk about the gold or Scott Vine, and he meant to keep it.

"Can't recall now. Been many years since I thought on it." He cleared his throat, pushing from the wall to spit one final time into the dust. "Gotta be gettin' back to my business."

"One more thing," Red looked up the street as he spoke. He'd seen Faith leaving the hotel from the corner of his eye, heading out of town on the paint. He noticed the old man was careful not to look her way.

"You know Leroy Diggs?"

"Diggs? Sure. He's a shady one; trust him 'bout as much as a rattle snake." The old man rolled his tobacco to his other cheek, turned toward the inside of the building. "He first came through here 'bout eight years ago or so, somethin' riding him hard. Carryin' a giant-sized chip on his shoulder.

"Killed a man who protested over his way with the girls. He's got a mean disposition and a worse reputation. You fight shy of him unless you want real trouble."

"Thanks, old timer." Red was about to turn away when the old man added something.

"I hear word Diggs is back in the area. He's on the hunt fer somebody, out for a large reward but also with a bit a prospectin' on his mind. You head up yonder; you may run right into him." The man indicated the slopes surrounding Wildcat, a subtle expression of warning on his face.

Red's eyes flashed with wicked delight as he grinned.

"Much obliged!"

Heading to the livery stable for the buckskin, his lead was just about out. He was riding out past the buildings when he saw the thick cloud of dust. Beating heart turning into war drums, it infused him with wild energy. Diggs had been among them all along, blending in with the nameless faces of those seeking his life. Wheeling around he headed the stallion back into town, putting the wooden buildings between him and the oncoming riders.

Taking the buckskin at a slow pace, he moved off, keeping the line of sight blocked by the hotel until he was sure he was far enough from White Rock. Urging the stallion into a run he flew across the open land parallel to the oncoming posse, making no effort to hide his trail. He wanted them to come, made it easy on them. They were all heading for a showdown where the likelihood no one would be left standing was high.

~~~

It was sweltering. The afternoon sun burned bright, causing him to repeatedly take off his hat and wipe his brow. Looking up at the peaks looming before him, he steadily worked his way toward Saddle Ridge. Just beyond that was a wide-open flower dotted meadow surrounded by a thick belt of alpine trees. That was his destination.

Using saddle time to think over what he had learned, Red put it in place with what he already knew. Diggs likely knew where Wildcat was. If he didn't know the exact location of the treasure, he'd not have a problem making Faith talk. Red was now positive Faith was the Ryan's daughter, somehow overlooked when they were killed. Or perhaps the townsfolk thought her captured by Indians. That did not explain her apparent lack of knowledge about who she was, but there were many reasons why that could be.

He remembered the fleshy scar on the back of her scalp. A blow like that could do it. If she did not know, perhaps didn't remember what had happened to her parents, what about the gold? She obviously knew where it was, but did she really know what it was? Where it came from?

It was very likely that she'd inherited the treasure rightfully from her father, if she was indeed the Ryan's daughter. Would they have talked about such a thing to a small child, or would Faith's parents have kept it as secret as possible? Mulling that over, he ducked under the low hanging branches of an ancient oak, feeling the twigs scrape across the crown of his hat.

Of course, he'd never asked Faith outright about her past, and what she remembered, so maybe- Nick Ryan. The name popped into mind as Red paused, letting it sink in. Blonde, quiet natured, hard-working, he was not a man to be taken lightly, though Ryan was never in the same class as Red. Other than Wildcat, the only story he'd ever heard about Nick Ryan was the time in Mexico when he faced up against three armed desperados. At the time, Ryan only had a skinning knife, or so the story went. It was one of Red's favorites-

The tree next to his head suddenly exploded into fragments, driving splinters everywhere. The report echoed in his ears. He reacted instantly, the buckskin surging forward as Red swung for deeper cover.

Loud shouts came from behind him and Red cursed himself for a fool. What right had he to daydream when those that wanted him dead were hot on his tail? He swore bitterly to himself. The meadow wasn't far, and the stallion drew away from those pursuing him, long powerful legs pumping hard and steady.

Red's still healing body ached, but he grimly pressed his lips together. That wild reckless feeling began to overtake him. This was to be it, his last stand. He would either die here or walk away a free man.

The buckskin crested the ridge and dropped down the other side, the battle ground before them. He urged the horse faster and they skimmed across the grass and flowers to the far side swinging to a stop at the edge of a grove of dense trees. Red pulled the rifle free and opened a box of ammunition. Slapping the buckskin's haunches he sent the horse off, wanting to keep the stallion clear of fire.

Setting himself up against a trio of large boulders, he settled in, ignoring the flare of pain from his wounds. His sights were fixed on the ridge. They came boiling over a moment later, seven men fixed on finding and killing him. Amongst them was Roy Diggs. Left over from the original posse were Hick Byers, Milt Damber, Ned Varny, and several faces he still didn't have a name for.

A grim smile crossed his face as Red set his sights on Diggs. Though itching to pull the trigger he held off. He wanted to kill him last, to make Diggs aware of why he was about to die. Red took a deep steadying breath as they came within range, placing the sights between the eyes of the unfortunate man in front. Anger blazed within him, a wild rage that thrilled in battle.

Red Rivers was through running.

The man jerked from his saddle and hit the ground, the forward momentum of his horse keeping his body rolling. At first no one understood, but then the report echoed against the trees, and they knew the killing had begun. To their credit the killers did not scatter in fear but kept driving straight across the meadow. If more of them fell, it would only bring a larger share to those left alive.

When the second man collapsed from his horse the group drew guns and began hammering the area ahead with bullets, hoping to flush Rivers out. He would not be moved though, and calmly fixed his sights on the third man, coolly pulling the trigger. Red watched as the figure clutched his chest and toppled from the saddle lying still.

Red could have been leveling the playing field wildly, scattering his shots, making them break for cover, but he wanted to kill them. When they hit the ground, he wanted to be sure they would not be getting up again. With a furious pace they closed the distance between themselves and their target, and Red set the rifle down and went for his revolvers. They flashed like the raw edge of lightning in his hands, belting thunder as the riders swept down on him. A thin man with red hair cried out and slumped in the saddle, crimson staining the leather.

The whining scream of a slug against rock warned him too late, and something slammed into his ribs. Breath knocked from him, he refused to fall. Turning to his left Red shot the closest rider twice in the vest, unpanicked. Before the man hit the ground Red had turned and fired off three rapid bullets, dropping a horse just to the left of Diggs, pinning the rider underneath. Bullets were spattering the area around him, screaming off boulders and slamming into the trees.

They were shooting wild, trying to hit him in a panic, where each of his shots counted for something. Then a slug tore into the back of his thigh. Feeling his leg give, Red swiveled his hips bringing down the man riding hard at him with two shots. The killer hit the ground with a hard thud, the horse sweeping by, snorting in terror. Before he could turn again, a rifle slug smashed into the back of his shoulder with the force of a sledgehammer, throwing Red forward.

He hit the ground rolling. Blinking sweat and dust from his eyes, without getting up he worked the hammer of his pistol as fast as he could. Diggs jumped out of the way, spurring his horse toward cover.

Chambers empty, knowing he would never have time to reload Red threw himself toward his rifle. The cool metal touched his fingers as another bullet punched through muscle and tissue. Leg numb, body on fire, Red lurched to his feet, battle fury keeping him moving. He meant to kill them!

Gun powder filled his nostrils as a brand of fire hit his chest. Staggering back, he kept to his feet by locking his knees. He wasn't going down, not yet! The rifle was heavy in his hands, but he swung it around took aim at the last man standing, Leroy Diggs.

Sweating, shaking, a queer numbness swept through his limbs in that moment. Diggs still sat in the saddle, the rifle locked on Red, but he held his fire. Those eyes were burning with a cruel light, and almost gleefully he smiled.

"Well, ain't this somethin'! Red Rivers shot to pieces, an' me still standing!"