Chapter 1

Scott had parted ways with Johnny several miles from the turn-off to the Gilmore ranch. This trip would hopefully turn a profit. He was to meet up with a rancher by the name of James Gilmore to talk over contracts while Johnny headed further east to drop off a string of horses to the Petersen spread. Frankly, Scott was glad that Murdoch had wanted him instead of Johnny to negotiate the beef contracts with Gilmore. It was already hotter than blazes out and he couldn’t see wrangling that bunch of green-broke horses any further than necessary. Johnny was more than qualified to handle that task alone, although he was bound to get some playful gibes about it when they met up again the next day in Glennville. 

As Scott rode along he wondered what he might find at the Gilmore ranch. To hear Murdoch talk about it you would think that Gilmore had the capacity to revolutionize the cattle industry overnight with his newest bloodline. He grinned, thinking that he hadn’t seen Murdoch this excited in a long while. It sort of reminded him of how Johnny looked in anticipation of spending a Saturday evening in town with a cold beer and a //warm// Clarisse.

It wasn’t all gold, for there was some idle gossip about shady transactions, however none of the complaints ever held up under scrutiny. The rancher did have a reputation as being a tough man to deal with but Scott hoped that the letter of introduction Murdoch had written would suffice to start the negotiations rolling quickly.

Thus far the trip had been blessedly uneventful except for the overly abundant sunshine which nipped greedily at exposed skin and sent rivulets of sweat down his back. He drew his hat further down, eased his horse into a leisurely walk and tried to enjoy the tuneful creak of his saddle. //The sooner out of this brick-oven furnace and back to Lancer the better.// 

Scott finally reached a massive wrought iron gate with two interlocking Gs melded into the front, signifying the Double G brand of the Gilmore ranch. Pulling on the gate latch, he looked upwards to see the faint outline of a rather large house through the plentiful scrub trees. Numerous red and white Herefords were off in the distance adding their bellows to the basic ranch noise. The din was made even louder by ranch hands shouting to one another as they made their way into a substantial barn. Several of the men turned to watch him with blatant curiosity as he angled his horse for the secluded house.

Reining up at the hitching post, Scott paused to take in the ornately carved wooden door that bespoke of only one thing--money. Just as he stepped out of the stirrup, a cowhand approached. He looked warily at the man who was staring at him from under bushy black eyebrows.  

“Whaddya want?” the man grunted. 

Scott nervously eyed the man who was now lightly stroking a wickedly long bowie knife swathed in brown leather strapped to the side of his belt. He opened his mouth to speak when the front door suddenly opened.

A loud voice split the tension, “Mason!  Get back to work! I’ll handle this.”

Mason flinched away from the voice emanating from the doorway as though stung by a bee. He cast Scott one more malevolent look and slunk away toward the corral.

The man in the doorway clapped his hands together, smiled broadly and stepped off the porch. “You must excuse my foreman. Mason is far better equipped at handling animals than he is people. What can I do for you?”

Scott relaxed slightly and nodded to the man, “Mr. Gilmore?” The man looked at Scott with cool, considering eyes and after a time nodded back. Scott had the uncomfortable feeling that he had just been thoroughly assessed and had somehow come up lacking.

The rancher appeared to be about thirty-five years of age with coal black hair slicked straight back revealing a high forehead. Smallish eyes were offset by a large aquiline nose. He was stocky but solidly built with a broad chest underneath his jacket. Meticulous black trousers and a white shirt showed expensive tastes in both cut and fabric. His muted vest held a dazzling gold watch which peeked out of a lower pocket. It occurred to Scott that he hadn’t seen a man like Gilmore since leaving Grandfather’s boardroom back in Boston.

“My name is Scott Lancer. I believe my father, Murdoch Lancer, has corresponded with you regarding a certain bloodline of cattle on your ranch. Unfortunately, he had pressing business elsewhere that he had to attend to in person, but I do have a letter of introduction.” He didn’t bother to tell Gilmore that his cattle were not the only ones that Murdoch Lancer was currently interested in buying. 

Gilmore appeared to perk up at the name of ‘Lancer’. His eyes narrowed and once more Scott was carefully regarded. “Murdoch Lancer you say? Yes, we’ve corresponded by letters with the last one being a few weeks ago. I was looking forward to meeting him in person after reading about his ranch. Please come into the house Mr. Lancer, or may I call you Scott? I’m sure that you’re more than a little weary after your journey and probably thirstier for something more than water, eh?”

Feeling conspicuous in his dusty clothes and grimy boots, Scott took a few minutes to slap his hat against the most obvious offenders and then stepped over the threshold. Eyes widened as he looked about the parlor at furnishings that reminded him of what was held in the finest houses of Boston or Washington. To say the Gilmore ranch house was opulent would be an understatement. Heavy brocade drapes were closed at the windows to keep out the profound heat of the late afternoon.  Ponderous furniture swallowed up space and bright gilded paintings hung from the walls. 

The painting over the fireplace, in particular, held Scott’s interest. It was of Gilmore, in military togs, standing with both hands clasping the front of his blue coat, one foot raised on a stump. He was a full colonel according to the rank he wore and his stance was unmistakable as a man who brooked no nonsense. The face in the painting was authoritative, almost haughty, all in all a younger version of the man who had just welcomed Scott into the house. It surprised Scott to see the military get-up at first because he’d assumed that Gilmore was a businessman by the expensive clothes he wore.  He had a hard time envisioning the man running a cattle ranch, let alone being the commander he probably was during the war. He mentally filed this away and would ask him later about it. Perhaps they had something in common after all.

Eventually Scott was shown a room in which to drop his gear.  The day was already late and the rancher was adamant that Scott stay the night. Truthfully, he only argued half-heartedly since a soft bed was always more welcome than the hard ground. After cool drinks in the parlor and a short rest while Gilmore changed clothes, he felt much more refreshed as both men rode out to the Double G herd. The ranch hands were already in the field trying to cull out some of the best specimens.

The Hereford cows were medium framed cattle with a distinctive red body color leaving the head, neck, brisket and switch all in white. These animals were exceptional looking and they promised a bright future for Lancer stock, Scott thought, if he could get the bloodline for the right price. He smiled to himself and shook his head, thinking back to a year and a half ago when he didn’t know one end of a cow from the other. He reveled in the fact that Murdoch had entrusted him with this important job.

They “danced around”, as Jelly would put it, but neither man wanted to concede much. Gilmore’s reputation for toughness was well earned. After a time, it was decided that the second of Gilmore’s vast herds would be shown to Scott after breakfast the next day. If things went well, the contracts would be signed and he could be on his way.

With the negotiations finished for now, Scott elected to stay with the herd a short while to ask the hands a few questions. Gilmore rode his horse across the field to stop and talk with his foreman and another ranch hand. Angry voices brought Scott’s attention to bear on the trio. Gilmore was gesturing wildly and tapping his hand on the cowboy’s chest while Mason backed away in obvious alarm. The cowboy was shaking his head back and forth then suddenly reached for the gun at his side. Before Scott could mount up and rein his horse around, Gilmore had backhanded the man so hard the cowboy’s head popped back with an audible crack. Leaning over him, Gilmore drew back his booted foot and drove it into the man’s side over and over again.  

In the short time it took Scott and several other hands to arrive, Mason was grappling with Gilmore in an effort to keep him away from the cowhand who now lay in a bloody heap on the ground. The rancher visibly composed himself and shook off his foreman, barking out orders to haul the man away. Scott grimly turned towards the rancher expecting an explanation but what he saw in Gilmore’s eyes stopped him cold. The rancher’s eyes were alive with frank excitement. Scott turned away in disgust as Gilmore caught his arm.

“You saw Harper reach for his gun, didn’t you? It was only a matter of time really. I only kept him on the ranch because of his skill with cattle but in the end it doesn’t matter does it? He showed me what kind of a man he really was….”

After the badly hurt cowhand, Harper, was led away, Scott reflected on the fact that the artist had captured the coldness in Gilmore’s eyes most accurately in the painting above the fireplace. 

Later on, as Scott finished getting cleaned up for supper, he contemplated on the days events.  The cows he saw today represented the best that Gilmore had to offer and he had no doubt that tomorrow would be more of the same.  But did Lancer really need the business of the Double G? His instincts were telling him that trouble lay ahead and it started with Gilmore. Any man who would treat an employee in such a vicious manner didn’t bode well for any personal dealings, let alone a business venture. The cattle could be a significant asset to the Lancer ranch, but bloodline or not, Scott would talk with Murdoch about the incident that happened today. As far as he was concerned, Lancer didn’t need to have any association with James Gilmore or his herd, and the contracts could remain unsigned. 

Gilmore’s actions had left Scott on edge. Maybe it was the seemingly forced geniality when the rancher had learned that Scott was representing Murdoch’s interests, but more than likely it was the presence of raw power that radiated from Gilmore. The incident in the field didn’t leave any room to wonder, for Scott knew that he could be a dangerous man. It was true that Harper had tried to draw his gun, but Gilmore had used excessive and even brutal force in dealing with the cowboy. He left the bedroom thinking that the rancher was indeed a very complex man. He looked like a straightforward businessman but acted like a back-alley bully. //I won’t be turning my back on him anytime soon.// 

The conversation at supper stalled over tender roast beef and potatoes that the forlorn, elderly housekeeper had brought in. Clothed in a nondescript gray shift and apron, she nonetheless carried the appealing scent of apples and baked bread. Casting brief almost furtive glances at Scott, she had hastily set the foodstuffs down and left the room.

Gilmore was the first to start the conversation going again. “I hope the confrontation with Harper this afternoon did nothing to dissuade you from looking at the rest of my cattle. I expect my hired help to follow my orders explicitly and if that doesn’t happen then discipline must be doled out. I realize that it may have looked extreme, but I assure you that if I hadn’t of treated Harper that way, there would have been others to usurp my authority. I learned in the infantry that discipline, along with strategy, of course, is the key to winning the war.”

Scott wondered just how Gilmore would react to what he had to say. “I also learned in the military that discipline is necessary to accomplish the mission, but this isn’t war and there are lengths that perhaps shouldn’t be crossed.” As they held each other’s gazes, the coldness once again crept into Gilmore’s eyes for a brief instant and then passed. 

Ignoring the not too subtle comment on his method of heavy handed discipline, Gilmore looked at Scott as though seeing him for the first time. “You were in the military?”

Scott nodded, “Cavalry unit, I served under Sheridan during the battle of Yellow Tavern, amongst others.”

“Ah, the cavalry, ‘dandies on horseback,’ or that was the claim anyway. The infantry’s favorite joke was, ‘If you want to see a good time, ‘jine the cavalry!’” Gilmore smirked.

Scott tried mightily not to let his eyes roll to the top of his head. He had heard it all before. There were always those that thought the cavalry was a life of dash and flamboyancy. Those ideas had gone out the window the first night Scott had been assigned patrol duty in the dead of winter in ’63. Cavalry tactics changed significantly after that and he had found himself more and more in the thick of battle until the fateful day that ended his participation in the war. //Let Gilmore have his say, with any luck I’ll be off this ranch by mid-morning.//

Withdrawing to the study for after-dinner brandies, Scott noticed a well-oiled military saber set on display. The saber, combined with the conversation at dinner about men, strategy and war, brought back long-buried memories for him. He gently fingered the golden hilt and caught himself staring at it with a mixture of pride and regret.

“You’ve worn one of those before.” Gilmore offered.

It was a statement and not a question so Scott merely nodded. The saber before him evoked complicated memories of the war, compounded by a lengthy stay in a rat-infested confederate prison. It was a near thing coming out intact from an experience that debased so many men a little further each day the longer they were held. Seeing the sword brought back a past that he preferred to keep at bay, so Scott turned instead to the gaming table and absently picked up the knight from off the chess board.

“Do you play?” asked Gilmore.

“I play when I can find the time or another player for that matter. My father doesn’t have much use for the game and my brother is still in the learning stages, although he’s getting better at it every day.”

Gilmore cocked his head at Scott and also picked up a chess piece from the table--the king--and said, “I find that chess can be either very simple or quite complicated, and that I come to know exactly what kind of a man I’m dealing with, depending on which strategy he chooses during the game.”  

He paused for a moment and then continued, “What kind of a man are you, Scott?”

Chapter 2

Scott stared openly at Gilmore through stormy eyes and placed the chess piece he had been holding back onto the table. His temper had been on a slow simmer since Harper was almost beaten to death before his eyes. It now threatened to ignite at Gilmore’s poorly chosen words. They had been doing another kind of dance since supper began, a tête-à-tête that left Scott heartily fatigued. Gilmore had not uttered any sort of threat, yet there it was, shimmering, under the surface. Choosing his words carefully, he said tersely, “I don’t need a game of chess to show what kind of man I am.”

Gilmore quickly explained, “By all means, I simply meant to ask you for a game.  I find so few can actually play out here that I would relish a chance to sit with someone who understood it.” 

Scott once more picked up the chess piece and flipped it over in his hand, regarding it carefully. Looking at the carved marble figure then at Gilmore, he asked, “White or black?”

After winning two games, Scott had left Gilmore to sulk in private. The rancher had not been as skilled as he was, and Scott had been out for blood. He noted that Gilmore’s good humor had decidedly worn off after the first loss. The second had his host refilling his brandy and muttering epithets under his breath. It seemed to be so much more than a game to the man. He had insisted on a third, but Scott had been weary from the day and so had retired for the night. He would be looking over the stock in the morning, as planned, and then take his leave of the Double G.

The dawn brought an all too-sunny day once again. The rancher’s mood was hard to gauge at the table this morning. Scott knew intrinsically that losing last night did not sit well with Gilmore, yet he hoped that it would be put behind him to concentrate on the business at hand.

The dour housekeeper had packed a small bag of provisions for the trail. She looked as though she wanted to say something to Scott but one glance from Gilmore and she remained quiet. “The cattle we’re going to look at are far superior to the ones you saw yesterday,” began the rancher. “Unfortunately, they were moved a few weeks ago to another range on the far side of the ranch. It will take us most of the morning to get there.”

Scott almost sighed.  There had been no mention of how far away from the ranch the cattle were located, but he had assumed that they were fairly close. He was anxious to be on the trail and this would again delay his leaving, but it couldn’t be helped if he was to give an honest report on the stock to Murdoch.

Finishing a brief and quiet breakfast of biscuits and coffee, they left the ranch, accompanied by Gilmore’s foreman, Mason.  

The terrain got rockier as they rode along, if that was possible. Short, dense trees burnt brown by the sun lined the trail. A few scattered hills here and there dotted the all together barren landscape. Since coming west, Scott had become used to, and even enjoyed, the harsh environment so unlike Boston in every way. This land, however, was almost desolate and he wondered why Gilmore had chosen such an obscure place to live.

The trail ran up a sharp outcrop of rocks then tapered off to scrub range. They had been traveling for quite some time already and Scott’s sweat-soaked shirt was plastered to his body from the morning’s heat. Exiting through the narrow pass, Scott spotted a few head of cattle grazing in the distance but no large herd. He turned his head to ask the rancher a question, but it died on his lips when he saw that Gilmore was holding a rifle pointed at his back. Mason was wearing a wide, evil grin that stretched from ear to ear.  

“I believe this will be far enough. Keep your hands where I can see them.” Gilmore ordered calmly. “Mason, take his gun, the rifle, too.”

Red-hot anger sparked in his eyes as Scott raised his hands ever so slightly and sat back in the saddle. “What’s this all about, Gilmore?” he snapped.

The rancher’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “Think of it as a game of chess, Scott. One strategist against another. You’ll make the perfect quarry. A game that can be recreated with a worthy opponent will be most interesting. It should be easy for an ex-cavalryman to succeed at his appointed mission, but who knows what the outcome may be?”

When Mason reached across to disarm him, Scott spun out his fist, clipping the foreman on the jaw. Mason lost balance and fell halfway on Scott and halfway on his mount. The short burst of action coupled with shifting weights caused the horses to nervously side-step. Scott saw Gilmore moving in from his periphery, the rifle turned and being raised. The last thing he saw was a million bright lights exploding before his eyes and then nothing. 

*****

A pounding in his head greeted Scott as wakefulness came closer. He felt something biting him in the back and attempted to move, but abruptly ceased when lights threatened to dance before his eyes once again. Moving slower the second time, he hesitantly propped himself up on one elbow. Scott realized that he had been moved to this wide-open space. As he peered about, he noted that the terrain was different than before. The outcroppings of rocks were much further away now. The high position of the sun told him he had been out cold for over an hour. Searching around for Gilmore and Mason, he saw they were nowhere to be found, and wondered uneasily if that was a good thing.

Scott tentatively placed a hand along the egg-sized welt near his temple. Feeling suspicious moisture, his fears were confirmed when his fingers brought away a smear of fresh blood. From the pulling sensation on his head, he guessed that there had been some minor bleeding but it was now mostly dry and encrusted. Belatedly, he looked for his gun and holster, and not really expecting to find them, he wasn’t disappointed.

A loud, unmistakable voice suddenly rang out, “Lancer!” It was Gilmore, appearing on a high stony ledge, rifle in hand.   

Scott slowly got to his feet and turned towards the voice. He looked around and judged the nearest shelter, a few large boulders, to be about two hundred yards away. It was much too far to make a sprint for it, especially since Gilmore had a weapon trained on him. He could be picked off at any time and that fact frustrated him more than anything else. Scott stood tall and straight with fists clenched at his side, awaiting Gilmore’s next move.

It wasn’t long in coming. Gilmore’s voice called out once more. “I think it’s time we began, Scott. Just you and me. I’ve sent Mason back to the ranch.”

“Why all the games and why me?”

“I thought you’d have figured that out by now. It’s the excitement of the hunt, to see who can best whom. We’re both military men why not put that training to good use? To see who the better man really is…?”

“A man on foot against a man on horse aren’t very good odds, Gilmore. What if I don’t want to play your games?” retorted Scott.

“Then you’ll die here. A pity really, but it’s your choice.” Gilmore lowered the carbine and aimed it directly at Scott’s chest.

Scott involuntarily stepped back and searched his surroundings one more time for a way out. Sweat slowly trickled down between his shoulder blades. The air was close and deathly quiet except for the two voices. Finding no other choice except the one he was forced to make, he nodded to the man. “Have it your way.”

Gilmore sported a feral smile as he held up a glittering pocket watch. “Just to show you that I can be a fair man, you’ll have an hour’s lead. Then the game will really begin.”

Scanning the area for the best way to turn, Scott abruptly took off at a run in a southerly path. Expecting a bullet in the back at any second, he zigzagged a pattern and headed for a clump of squat trees. Reaching them gave him a small amount of comfort. He had two choices now; he could wait for Gilmore and try to overtake him or he could keep running for safety in the hopes of finding some way out of this mess. Rehearsing the odds once more in his head, Scott took off across the sandy hard-packed dirt.

The afternoon sun shone down relentlessly and egged on the cadence of drums that had taken up residence in his head. Trying to ignore the headache, Scott had initiated a method of running and walking to conserve his dwindling strength. Reaching an outcropping of rocks, he sank down to rest a bit. He thought that he’d been fairly straight in his trajectory, figuring a southerly direction would lead him towards the ranch. It was risky moving in that direction since it meant going back into Gilmore’s home territory, but it also held horses, weapons and hopefully a way out.

A faint clip-clop of horse hooves snapped him out of his reverie. It could only mean that the pursuit had finally begun. Scott stood and shielded his eyes against the sun, catching a glimmer of light reflected off the rifle that Gilmore held across his lap. The man on horseback was still a ways away and, as he slowly advanced, was swallowed up time to time by the rocky terrain. Scott took off once again.

Gilmore played the game well, allowing him a certain measure of distance then quickly advancing to close the gap, but never actually getting close to his intended victim. The air was punctuated every so often with a rifle shot thrown in Scott’s general direction. He imagined that his pursuer was thoroughly enjoying every minute of this elaborate endgame. 

The sun had completed its arc and was finally setting for the day, casting out bright hues of red and gold against the sky. Scott was getting bone weary now, his thirst intensified by heavy sweat loss. It was time to change strategy and increase the odds in his favor.

Chapter 3

Hidden within the darkened shadows of the burgeoning twilight, Scott waited for an opportune time to attack. Hunkered down behind a series of large boulders, he struck just as Gilmore was making a pass through. Flinging himself at the rancher, Scott caught him hard at the waist and both tumbled off the horse together. The rifle was tossed out of Gilmore’s hand and clattered underneath the animal. The horse shied away at the abrupt sound and immediately reared up. Its foreleg came down, clipping the side of Gilmore’s right leg, causing an ugly, slicing gash.

They rolled together in the dirt before a meaty fist connected with Scott’s cheek, causing sparks to appear before his eyes. Scott retaliated by driving his own fist into the other’s mid-section. As Gilmore folded into himself, Scott took advantage of the break and reached the nervous horse. He desperately grabbed the saddle horn just as the frightened animal took off at a frenzied gallop. Dragged by the lunging horse, he made a leap into the saddle and leaned low over its neck. His only intention was to get as much space as possible between him and Gilmore.

A staccato burst of gunfire shattered the early evening air. The pure solidness of the bullet’s impact into his left side took him by surprise. It took a few seconds for the shock to fade away, only to be replaced with a bloom of searing white-hot pain. He toppled off the saddle and hit the ground violently, rolling alongside the galloping horse. His injured side was temporarily forgotten as he tried to find purchase on the stony path. Finally he came to rest, sliding the last foot or so on his back. Sensing rather than seeing someone, he struggled to get to his feet. Clamping a hand over the ever-widening red stain at his side, Scott stumbled off into the brush, sparing a wistful glance for the rapidly fleeing horse.  

***** 

The moon was high and full, its brightness casting eerie silhouettes throughout the landscape. Startled awake, he couldn’t remember how he got into the sandy arroyo and he didn’t really care. The smell of old blood mixed with the sweet fragrance of sage assaulted his nostrils. The bullet had caused two holes, not one, as it coursed its way through Scott’s back and out his abdomen. The wound in front was larger than the back and it was still oozing blood. He had managed to tear his shirttails off to use as packing for both the wounds and held them in place with his belt. The cloth was wet from sweat but reasonably clean and it was the best thing going for now. 

The need for water became unbearable and Scott peered around at the vegetation. Seeing several cacti illuminated by the moonlight, he clumsily got to his feet and reeled to them. Using a rock to chip away at the rough, spiny exterior, he exposed enough of the pulpy wet inside to allay his thirst for the present. He sat with his back against a gnarled tree trunk and looked intently into the darkness, half expecting Gilmore to show up brandishing a rifle once more. He set his teeth, he knew that Gilmore wouldn’t quit until one of them was dead and he was going to make damn sure it wasn’t him.

Scott managed to get to his feet again by holding on to the rough tree. The lightheadedness caused by standing cleared after a time and he was able to stagger up the far side of the deep gulch. He had to keep moving. Looking at the night sky filled with its winking stars, he finally got his bearings and slowly moved off towards the south. 

***** 

It turned out to be a bright, cheery morning, completely at odds with the hellishly long night Scott had spent walking. He had made good time, at least good time for a man in the rotten condition he was in, Scott thought ruefully. Stretching out long legs, he tried to get comfortable against the hardened clay of the ground. Propped up against a bleached-white rock face, he did a roll call on the status of his injuries. Only a minor headache, for the drums had thankfully died down several hours ago. Both of the wounds in his side were clotted, aided by the rigged dressings. They had been his biggest concern but had finally stopped bleeding a while back. He was thirsty again and even a little hungry this morning but he could deal with it.

Squinting against the fully risen sun, he remembered that he was supposed to have met Johnny at Glennville yesterday. Was it only twenty-four hours ago? The whole trip had taken on a dream-like quality and the details of it were starting to become hazy. 

Mid-afternoon was heralded by the sight of a horseless James Gilmore lurching across the open range. Scott held a closeted vantage point and watched as the man made his way from one end to the other. He noticed that Gilmore still possessed a holstered pistol on his right hip, but the rifle was missing.   

He also noted that Gilmore looked to be in poor condition. His right leg was bathed in blood from mid-thigh downwards and was wrapped in what looked like a dirty bandana. Contrary to his usual sense of self, Scott gained a small measure of satisfaction from seeing the man wounded.  Figuring that Gilmore must be headed homewards for help, he got to his feet. The hunted had become the hunter.

Following the man should have been a simple task, as the rancher made no attempt to cover his tracks, but Scott was finding it hard to keep placing one foot in front of the other. The gradual upslope of the land forced him to pay attention, however weariness coupled with blood loss made his head swim and his vision was perilously unfocused at times. Gilmore’s path showed that he wasn’t faring much better. He had fallen a few times, leaving blood and bits of material behind. The tracks ahead showed that Gilmore was now dragging his leg but steadily moving towards a tall outcropping in the distance.

Scott came to a wobbly, panting stop at the top of the incline. Scanning the area, he found himself facing a drop-off that looked over a dry creek bed. The actual trail curved off to the left and there was no sign of Gilmore up ahead. Cursing himself, he realized too late that the tracks had disappeared.

Abruptly, Scott knew he wasn’t alone. The sound of a hammer being cocked back echoed loudly in the quietness. Gilmore limped out from his hiding place amongst the rocks and edged towards Scott, a look of triumph etched across his lined, dirty face. The pistol in the rancher’s shaky hand abruptly cracked and a bullet kicked up the dirt beside Scott’s right boot. He took several steps backwards but was hemmed in between Gilmore and the sheer drop-off. Desperately, he looked for an advantage.

“It occurs to me that we may have a…stalemate. I seemed to have…misjudged you.” As Gilmore spoke, the pistol wavered dangerously back and forth. It barked again and the second bullet raked its way past Scott’s right forearm, leaving a bloody crease in its stead.

Scott took his chance and launched himself at Gilmore just as the man readied to fire once more. The shot went wide as they both hit the ground. Momentum plowed them into the hard rocky wall opposite the drop-off and stunned both men momentarily. Scott struggled to get to the pistol that had been thrust aside on impact. Gilmore savagely drove a fist into Scott’s face and blood ran freely from a cut along his eye. Blindly kicking out, he sent out a glancing blow catching Gilmore at his weakest point, the right leg. Scott was suddenly free when the man crumpled. Scrambling up, he reached the gun that had skittered to the lip of the ledge.   

Oblivious to everything else, Scott stared at the pearl-handed weapon he held in his hand. From somewhere back in his mind it came. //It would be so easy to end it here. // He firmly grasped the handle that was slick with the bleeding from his arm and looked down at Gilmore. The injured man was sitting up staring at Scott, his leg bent at an awkward angle under his body. His eyes still held a hint of the cold orbs that Scott remembered from the painting. It seemed so long ago now. He raised the pistol and pointed it towards Gilmore. 

“Go ahead…do it…don’t you see it’s ‘check’. You have to play the game right.” Gilmore’s voice was strained and high-pitched.

An eternity seemed to pass as Scott stood with the pistol raised. He finally made his decision. “No, Mr. Gilmore…this is ‘checkmate’.” Releasing the hammer, he dropped the pistol, hearing the heavy thump as it hit the ground. He stepped away from the ledge and walked unsteadily past the man, all energy spent. As he gradually made his way to the trail, Scott became vaguely aware of another’s presence. From beyond the path, an urgent, yet familiar voice was calling out a warning.   

Turning around, Scott saw Gilmore with gun in hand, standing on the ledge. The rancher was favoring his now-crippled leg, and swayed with the effort of standing. He looked at Scott with a small smile then wrapped a finger around the bloody trigger and slowly took aim. 

Time stood still for Scott. Unable to defend himself, he faced an inevitable death at the hands of this man. As he watched Gilmore ready to fire, he saw the pistol slip a bit from the rancher’s grasp. Gilmore tried to recover the weapon, but in doing so his weight shifted briefly to the injured leg. Unable to take the burden, his leg simply folded. Gilmore plunged, screaming, over the edge of the rock face. Scott watched in surprise as the pistol arced over the rim to chase after the falling man.

Shocked, Scott faltered a few broken steps towards the open space that Gilmore had occupied only moments before, but was incapable of making the distance. He pitched forward, not feeling the ground that rushed up to meet him.    

*****

He didn’t know what awoke him. Maybe it was the muffled voices arguing at one another from somewhere off to his left, or maybe it was the hammering in his skull that had come back for an encore. He chanced it and opened a bleary eye. He was in bed, in a room that he had never seen before. Opening both eyes, he saw Johnny staring out the window, bracing himself against the pane with one hand while the other held back gingham-checked curtains.  

Pain edged fully into Scott’s awareness and a groan escaped. 

His brother jerked at the sound and came away from the window. “It’s about time, Brother.” Johnny remarked casually as he sat down in the chair beside the bed. His relaxed tone was belied by intense searching eyes.

Scott looked closely at his brother and found his voice, surprised to hear it sound so raspy. “Is that…Murdoch?”

Johnny dipped his head and fiddled with a worn spot on the blanket, “Yeah, that’s him in the other room, yellin’ at the doctor. He wants to know why you haven’t woken up yet.” He raised his head and grinned at Scott.

“You brought Murdoch?...Why?”

The grin faded and bright blue eyes held grey-blue ones, “You weren’t lookin’ too good there for a while, Scott.” The smile made its reappearance, “And you know how Murdoch hates to lose a good hand.” Johnny fidgeted on the chair for a bit more then leaned towards Scott with a piercing look, “Just what happened out there?” he softly asked.

Scott slowly shifted his eyes away to focus on the worn ceiling beams above him and carefully mulled over his answer. His thoughts were lost on the choices he had been handed and the decisions he might have made.

“Scott?”

 “Well…you see…it all started with a simple game of chess…”