Short Story

The third shot hit Jake Donner in the left shoulder, just over his badge.

The Marshal felt its impact, like a rough shove backwards, and he cursed as he scrambled behind some granite boulders, out of sight from the canyon floor. He tried to stay calm while he ripped off his shirt sleeve, breathing sharply through his teeth when he saw the wound. He rotated his arm gingerly, testing it, as he stanched the blood. The bones were still intact, but it hurt like hell. Soon he would be unable to move it at all.

He tied the bandage on crudely. He could no longer use his rifle so he reached into his holster and pulled out his Colt. He leaned against the rocks, fingering back the hammer as he weighed the risks of firing. Shooting back would expose him immediately, and there was a slim chance the shot had been a lucky hit. But Jake could not afford to gamble: he had to assume the outlaw was aware of his position and was heading up the rocky slope towards him. Jake knew that Frank Holloway had been avoiding the law for almost twenty years. Jake knew he did not believe in luck. Frank trusted his hands, his mind and his instincts for self-preservation. There was only one time Frank Holloway had ever taken a risk for anything other than money. That was the time he had saved Jake's life.

Shortly before dawn that morning, a farmer passing through town had alerted the Marshal to the wreck out at the Mokelumne Gorge. Jake answered the door then dressed quietly, trying not to awaken Elizabeth, his wife. She stirred sleepily as he left their room, giving him a soft smile before she rolled over with a grateful sigh. Her belly was getting large and she was increasingly uncomfortable in their small bed.

On his way out, the Marshal looked in at his son, sleeping soundly on top of a tangle of blankets and sheets. Michael was almost three, and full of all the passion and fury arising from his first taste of independence. It was rare that he was still, and Jake loved to watch him sleep. The boy's innocence sent a pang of love so sharp and loneliness so bitter through him that he wondered, as always, if he would ever be worthy of his son's limitless trust. For so long he had been a dangerous man, even to himself.

The Marshal left his house just as the sun was topping the mountains far away to the east. He roused Bill Patterson and waited in the front parlor while the other man got dressed. Patterson's wife gave him two freshly baked biscuits and a cup of coffee, shooing her young twin girls back into the hallway so the Marshal could have his privacy. By the time they started out of Jackson, the news had reached Tom Averill, owner of the Lincoln Mine, who wanted to come along as well. His payroll had been on the stage.

When they got to the gorge, they could see the debris. Their horses slid reluctantly down the steep incline, their breath steaming in the crystalline morning air. The stage had apparently been moving fast and when the driver had been shot the team veered out of control. The rig had overturned on the curve and plunged down the slope a hundred yards or so. The horses, hopelessly snarled in their traces, had been dragged behind it.

As Jake rode closer, he saw the twisted body of the shotgun man trapped beneath one of the axles of the coach. His eyes were open, his light brown mustache clotted with blood. The driver was face down on the other side of the river. The two payroll guards lay about ten yards from the stage. Their hands were bound behind them. They had each been shot through the head.

There was only one passenger, an older gentleman who lay twenty feet from the stage, his hands clutching at a boulder as though trying to climb out of the ravine. His bloody waistcoat stretched tight over a generous stomach and his fractured spectacles were still perched jauntily on his broken nose. The passenger's death had been the most chilling. He had been beaten and then allowed an attempt at escape, dying with the illusion of freedom. Although it had been two years and over a thousand miles since he had ridden with Frank Holloway, Jake recognized his brutal signature immediately.

Jake felt a chill begin to form in his stomach as he walked away from the stage, studying the damp ground by the river. He could see where the gang had left their horses, and he could see that they had ridden off singly, headed in several directions. After a robbery, Frank and his men took the spoils back to a pre-arranged meeting place, traveling individually and confusing the trail for their pursuers. That way if someone was caught, the loss to the whole gang would be slight.

Jake found a place where the ground was cut up more severely: two horses had stayed there the longest. Jake followed those tracks with his eyes. One horse had gone back to the stage. The other, a large animal, had taken off towards the mountains. Jake swallowed hard.

"We going to stand around here all day, Marshal?" Averill's voice cut harshly through the still air.

Jake turned around, his jaw tense, and walked over to the other men.

"Go back to town, Averill. Get a couple of men together. Keep the party small, but make sure some of them are good at following a trail."

"Well, O.K., then." Averill moved to his horse.

"Bill, you stay. Keep the area clear. When Tom comes back, you go out with them if you want."

"All right."

"These guys split up," Jake continued. "My guess is that they're heading east and north, maybe towards Tahoe. Each one will have some of the money." Jake looked out towards the mountains. "I think the leader went that way. I'll take him. Have a couple of guys go after the other trails."

"We'll find them," Patterson said, watching him carefully.

Averill rode by the Marshal, pausing for a moment and looking down.

"My men had to get paid, you know." Averill tightened his grip on the reins.

"I know that."

"This isn't my fault." Averill glanced briefly at Patterson, then turned away and urged his horse up the embankment.

Jake looked after him, then started for his own horse. Patterson followed.

"You know who did this?"

"I'll take care of it." Jake mounted up, not meeting his eye, then wheeled his horse around.

"Don't do anything stupid, Jake," Patterson called.

The Marshal glanced one last time at the overturned stage and the mangled bodies. He didn't want deputies, he didn't want a posse, he didn't want questions. He knew what he was up against, and he knew that he was the only one who could do anything about it. If he ran into trouble on the way, well, that was only partial payment for the times he had witnessed similar scenes and done nothing except ride off with the money.

About a year after he'd left Frank Holloway, Jake had found himself in San Francisco getting by on card playing and side-bets, his luck due more to other people's carelessness than his own skill. One rainy night he was drinking off some winnings at a wharfside bar when he looked up to see Bill Patterson pushing towards him through the dense pack of sailors.

"Jake? Why, Jake Donner!" Patterson's coattails were crisp and tailored; he was an incongruous sight amongst the rugged seamen in their dripping sou'westers.

"Hey -- keep it low, all right?" Jake could not trust anybody: he had seen what Frank Holloway did to those who betrayed him.

Patterson's smile faded into concern. "You look like hell, Jake. You in trouble?"

Jake turned back to the bar, playing with his empty glass uncomfortably. He and Patterson had worked together long before Jake had started working with Frank Holloway -- Jake had been a highgrader in a large Sonora operation and Patterson had assisted in the assayer's office. The clerk was smart, quiet, bookish -- and scrupulously honest. They had run into each other occasionally outside of the office -- sharing elbow room at a bar or engaging in a game of faro. Jake knew that Patterson disapproved of Jake's activities. But Patterson kept his mouth shut and continued to weigh in the large chunks of ore that Jake brought in every other day or so. The only thing Patterson had ever said was that he thought a man like Jake could probably do better for himself working his own claim. Shortly after that, Jake had outgrown Sonora and moved on.

"Bartender!" Patterson waved over to the German behind the bar, motioning for a new bottle. Patterson poured two glasses, and pushed one over to Jake.

Patterson raised his glass in a silent toast. "I'm over in Jackson now," he said. "Treasurer of the town. Came over here to meet with some bankers."

"If you have problems squaring your accounts, let me know."

Patterson smiled, as though Jake was making a joke. Then he grew serious as he looked at him appraisingly.

"We need a Marshal, Donner. Someone tough. You interested?"

"Me?" It was Jake's turn to laugh. "I don't think so."

Patterson stared at Jake for a moment, then leaned towards him, speaking quietly.

"Jackson needs someone who can handle the rougher elements, who knows how they think. They've had too many political dogs in office for too long. The place is out of control." Patterson downed the rest of his whiskey and wiped his mustache with a pocket handkerchief. He glanced at Jake, frowning slightly. "You had the potential for better things, Donner."

"I went on to better things." The last thing Jake needed was some bookkeeper's pity. He drank again. "Better than you'll ever know."

Patterson glanced around the crowded bar and looked back at Jake with an ironic smile. "I can tell."

Jake felt the whiskey snaking through his arms and legs, giving him strength. Didn't this guy know who he was dealing with? Jake had ridden with Frank Holloway. Jake was Frank's closest man, his segundo.

"Don't fool yourself. We were friends, but that was a long time ago."

"You threatening me, Jake?"

"I'm telling you."

The two men locked eyes.

"Have you ever tried going straight?"

"That's none of your business," Jake answered quickly. But then he thought back to the Socorro stage robbery. The first time he'd really worked with Frank. He'd had a notion that he'd make some quick money, then move someplace nice. Settle down.

"You don't believe in second chances?" Patterson asked quietly.

"What I need you can't give me," Jake said, his anger suddenly replaced by an empty sadness.

Patterson leaned towards Jake. "What you've done the last few years is your business," he said carefully. "If you come back to Jackson with me there will be no questions asked -- as long as you do your work."

Jake hesitated. "What would it be?" he asked finally.

"You'd be the law. Keeping the peace and running out the bad apples."

"And you think I could do it?"

"I do." Patterson looked at Jake for a long minute. Jake forced himself to look back, trying to figure out what the other man saw that made him sound so confident. "I think you can do it, Jake," Patterson said again, finally. "But there's one thing."

"What's that?"

"No more drinking. It's making you sloppy, and it's making you mean. I don't need mean, Jake. I need tough."

Jake stared at him angrily for a moment, then dropped his eyes. Patterson was right, and they both knew it.

The other man stood up and threw a card from the Palace Hotel on the bar in front of him. Jake glanced down at it.

"I need a Marshal. Come find me if it's what you want to do."

Jake looked back up at him, holding the card gingerly between his fingers.

Patterson put some money on the table and turned to leave. He paused, looking back at Jake. "Whatever it is you're running from has got you, Jake. Got you from inside."

Jake nodded as Patterson left, finding no words to say. He drank his whiskey and stared at the card in his hand. He hadn't thought about Patterson in many, many years.

Outside, the rain was pouring down, rippling with the gusts of wind which came over the bay. A thick fog was coming in, obscuring the tops of the schooners moored at the dock behind the bar. Water dripped from the brim of Jake's hat.

Jake stared out at the wet wharf for a long time, but not really seeing it. Finally he turned, heading towards the warm distractions of the Barbary Coast.

He went into a saloon, drank one last pony of whiskey, then started the long walk down to the Palace.

In the growing morning light, Jake found the trail of a solitary rider traveling slowly and heading east, away from Jackson. If the robbery had been Frank's job, the gang would probably rendezvous on the other side of the range. Frank Holloway picked his heists carefully, and would choose remote, treacherous country for his escape. He would watch for the law and ambush any followers he could find. Jake covered the miles with as much speed as possible, but he rode warily, keeping his eyes sharply trained on the land around him.

Within eighteen months of Jake's arrival in Jackson the bad elements had moved on and the legitimate businesses were flourishing. The new Marshal made few friends, stayed in at night, and was never seen taking a drink. Everyone was surprised when he started courting Elizabeth, but he did so with such an earnest formality that the other women in the town looked at him with new and regretful interest. The local wags speculated that matrimony might loosen the Marshal up a bit, but even after Michael was born there was a sternness to Jake Donner that no one dared to intrude upon. No one knew about his past, and no one inquired.

Jake did his job with ruthless efficiency, convinced that one day he would be discovered. When he'd been riding with Frank, the deference he had been shown made him feel dirty and false. Now, for the first time in his life he felt needed, respected -- and content. All he wanted was to live, for as long as he was allowed, with that feeling of freedom and grace. Any day could be the last.

The sun arched overhead and slipped behind him as Jake rode steadily up the western slope of the Sierra Nevadas, leaving the dusty grasslands below and behind him. The blue oak of the foothills gave way to an evergreen forest mounting up along the steep jagged sides of a canyon. A cool mountain breeze whispered through the ponderosa pines, drying the sweat on the Marshal's horse. A dense undergrowth of fallen needles obscured all but the merest hint of a trail. Jake followed cautiously, but never wavered.

As early twilight settled between the valley walls, the outlaw's trail led down to the creek which raced cold and wild through the bottom of the canyon. Keeping to the slopes above, Jake dismounted and left his horse tied to the branch of a small cedar. He pulled out his Spencer rifle from its scabbard and crept silently, keeping behind as much cover as possible. Finally he saw a thin ripple of blue smoke where the other man had set up camp in a small clearing by the creek.

The Marshal crawled along a granite slab which jutted out over the canyon and afforded a limited view. This was the closest Jake had come to the man he had been tracking all day; he held his breath as he peered over the rocks and down into the valley. The hunted man had chosen his campsite wisely, finding a spot ringed by a thick stand of alders and shrouded with mountain dogwood. He had made himself a hard target, and his hand never strayed far from his gun. As Jake watched, the man set out his bedroll. Then he stood up . . . and turned.

Jake flinched back instinctively. It was Frank Holloway, and even knowing he had been right did not stop Jake from breaking out into a sudden cold sweat. It had been a long time since he'd seen the face of the man who had been his friend for as long as he could remember.

Jake glanced down again. Frank was rolling himself a cigarette, with hardly a glance around. In other times, Jake would have been stretched out on the rocks next to him, listening to Frank tell one of his interminable stories.

Jake ducked back behind a couple of massive boulders. What was he going to do now? Frank Holloway was a killer -- no one knew that better than Jake. If the tables were turned, he knew Frank would aim, shoot and ride on home. Wouldn't give it a second thought.

Jake peered down again and braced his rifle against the rock. Although it was not up to Jake to dispense justice, he knew in his heart that the death of this particular man would be the best possible solution. But still he couldn't pull the trigger. For almost seven years now he had been fighting hard on the side of law and order. He couldn't shoot in cold blood.

He adjusted the butt of the rifle against his shoulder and swallowed hard. Maybe it wasn't that at all. Perhaps he had some remainder of loyalty to the outlaw. They had shared friendship, youth and hard times together. Or maybe it was just fear. Frank had always accused him of not having the guts to see a job through to the end.

A cold wind blew down the canyon. Above him, the pines thinned in the higher altitudes and the cliffs were touched by the orange light of the setting sun. Jake shivered and cursed himself for coming alone.

He glanced around, searching desperately for an idea. The far side of the valley rose up steeply, the trees dense except for a few old clearings that were still littered with tumbled shacks and rusty equipment from abandoned claims. Ahead, the canyon narrowed and Jake could see where a road had once led to the outbuildings of a large mine. Tangles of upturned roots and rocky debris lay strewn along the slope below, but the road had long since been overgrown as the dreams of the miners had led them to search through other streams, tunnel through other mountains.

Jake squinted through the lengthening shadows of the trees. If there was a passable trail ahead, from which he might ambush the outlaw, it was not obvious. If there was a way to take Frank in without shooting, he could not think of it.

Jake narrowed his eyes, watching Frank lie down upon his bedroll and casually light the cigarette. He leaned his own tired body against the rocks, forcing himself to stay keenly aware. Frank had always thought lawmen were clumsy and stupid -- hell, for many years they both had. And in all the time they'd ridden together, they'd never had to revise their opinion. Now Jake hoped mightily that Frank would relax his guard, make some mistake that the Marshal would be able to use to turn the tables. After many years of dodging the law together, the Marshal knew Frank Holloway's every maneuver. If Jake wasn't careful, he was going to end up as dead and lonely as all the other men who had associated with Frank Holloway and ended up on his bad side.

Something unseen and unheard suddenly changed, and the Marshal tensed instinctively. He eased forward, peering out over the ledge of rock. Frank was nowhere to be seen. His heart pounding, Jake searched the slope below, forcing himself to stay motionless. He waited a minute. Two. But nothing happened. Frank was gone: Jake was the one being hunted now.

The Marshal slowly pulled back the hammer on his Spencer, scanning over the barrel. His thoughts came clearly now, with a sharp coldness for which he was grateful. With his left hand, he carefully reached around and grasped a good-sized pine cone. He had to know Frank's position. Holding his breath, he threw it, hard, across the canyon. When it hit, Jake saw a flicker of motion as Frank spun quickly, firing twice and shattering the rock ledge where the cone had landed. Jake homed in on his mark, aimed . . . then fired.

The outlaw wheeled around, unhurt -- and shot back immediately. His third bullet hit Jake in the shoulder. Jake crawled back behind the boulder quickly, bandaging himself up with his shirt sleeve. He rotated his arm then reached into his holster and pulled out his Colt, cocking it.

He had only a few moments of grace time before Frank figured out where he was. Jake looked out from around the granite boulder, scanning the slope with eyes made more acute with pain. He studied the terrain below him and chose the path he would take himself, if he had to approach an attacker from below. Frank was vulnerable as he climbed; this would be Jake's only chance.

A movement. Jake grasped his pistol more firmly, tracing a wary line up the slope. Frank had infinite patience. And he had taught Jake its rewards. Slowly now . . . Jake moved the sight past each boulder, waiting for the other man to reveal himself.

Then, suddenly, Jake saw him, creeping furtively through a stand of aspens. The Marshal's hand was steady as he pulled the trigger.

Frank Holloway went down with an angry shout. Jake jumped to his feet, running around the outcropping and down the slope towards him. Frank whirled around to shoot: a flash of fire exploded from the barrel of his Walker Colt. The Marshal swerved wildly, slipping down the rough gravel of the mountain, a tree branch slashing his face. Frank scrambled up and raced along the overgrown mining road below Jake. He turned again and another flash blasted from his gun. Then he left the road and plunged downhill into the dense undergrowth of forest and debris.

Jake pounded along the abandoned road, his view of the outlaw obscured by the shadows below. Frank dodged between the trees and boulders, keeping behind as much cover as he could find. Jake finally charged off the road himself, scrambling down over the upturned timber and sliding on the loose rock. He saw Frank ahead of him. The outlaw turned -- aimed at Jake -- fired. The bullet smashed into an abandoned tank which lay collapsed against the hillside behind Jake. The Marshal fired back, his mind racing. He had seen a dark stain of blood on Frank's pants. The outlaw couldn't run forever if he'd been hit.

Frank ran deeper into the canyon. Jagged piles of old construction blocked the way, slowing the outlaw down. Jake ran after, pushing himself onward, oblivious to everything except catching the other man.

Jake got closer and Frank suddenly wheeled around. He fired . . . and missed. Jake was just about on him as Frank fired another shot. The shot went wild . . . as Frank gave a shout and disappeared.

Before he could stop himself, Jake felt his own footing give way. He struggled for purchase but the empty void beneath his feet sucked him down. His gun slipped out of his hand as he grasped frantically at some rotting boards, wrenching his injured shoulder. Bellowing a loud, unintelligible curse, he plunged downward, striking his head on a jagged rock.

The blackness swallowed him up.

The stage to Socorro had been late coming over the pass, and tempers in Frank Holloway's band were wearing thin. Jake pulled off his hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. He glanced at Frank, about ten feet in front of him, coolly watching the road, his rifle propped against a red boulder. Sawyer, MacKennon and Tucker were on the other side of the ravine, waiting impatiently for the sign to move in. The empty road snaked through the steep canyon towards Magdalena, the hills boxing in the heat. The air rippled around the hidden men.

"You O.K. back there?"

"Yeah." Jake kept his eyes on the road.

"This'll be fun. Just like old times." Jake and Frank had spent much of their youth playing pranks on the other citizens of their small South Dakota town. Frank had always masterminded their jokes and Jake followed along obediently, enjoying the thrill of the escapade and relying on Frank's wily cunning to get them out of trouble.

"Money's better."

Frank chuckled and looked back up the road. "I checked out this stage thoroughly. About three thousand dollars for each of us."

"That's great." After he'd left home, Jake had quickly tired of living off wages and began enhancing his income with a sideline of petty thievery and small-time cons. He was overjoyed when he met Frank one night in a Denver saloon. This robbery was Jake's first time out.

"I run a good operation, you'll see. I only work when I kmow the job is worth it. I want to keep my boys happy."

"At three thousand a shot, I bet no one's complaining."

"I'm not interested in hanging, Jake. I'm not interested in running from the law, either."

"Who is?"

"You've got to be smart to survive, Jake. There's only one way to stay safe. Keep it clean. I make sure no one ever sees me or any of my boys commit a crime."

"How do you do that?"

"No witnesses. Dead men are quiet men. What I lose in reputation, I gain in security."

Frank laughed, then straightened suddenly, his body poised and tense.

Jake looked up the road. The stage was slowly winding down the steep mountain pass. He raised his left hand in warning to the guys across the canyon, then readied his own rifle.

At two hundred yards, Frank took out the express messenger. The driver panicked, slapping the reins wildly with one hand as he reached for the dead man's rifle with the other. Frank hit him next. When the stage started careening out of control, Jake mounted his horse and raced down the narrow trail to the road. Across the canyon, Sawyer and the others appeared, riding hard. The show was on.

When Jake and the other men reached the stage, they headed off the team, slowing them down. MacKennon jumped on the driver's box and pulled them up. Sawyer killed the two lead horses to prevent a runaway. By the time Frank arrived, they had stopped the stage and were pulling out the passengers. Two young women were crying and holding on to each other. A tall, well-dressed man came out behind them, his hands held up as Randy took his gun.

"It's all right, ladies," the man said, eyeing Frank coldly. "They're only after the money."

Frank dismounted with a grin, the heavy Walker Colt cradled casually in his right hand.

"Sawyer -- you and Mac get the cash box. Jake, see what we've got inside. Good afternoon, folks."

Jake edged around the man, and climbed into the coach. Methodically, he poked through the women's satchels and wraps. He took a couple of brooches that looked like they might be worth something, rifled through the carpet bags, taking some coins and what currency he could find, and was turning to leave when he heard a faint sniff. He turned quickly, then noticed a movement in the rack above the back seats.

Jake moved cautiously, using his pistol to prod a buffalo coat that had been stuffed into the narrow space. He saw the brown hair first, then he pushed back more until he could see the boy's entire face. He was about five years old and his eyes were enormous with fear. His nose was red and runny. Jake stared at him. The boy sniffed again, his bottom lip quivering.

Jake felt a tightening in his chest. Frank had said they'd leave no witnesses.

"Twenty grand, boss," Randy shouted down.

"That's about right."

The stage was hot and close inside. The coach swayed and creaked as Randy scrambled down from the roof. Jake wanted to be far away. A large drop of sweat drew a line down the dust on his cheek. The boy began to shake.

"Come on, Donner." Frank sounded cheerful. "Let's go."

Jake glanced outside and nodded to Frank with a wave. He looked back at the little boy. Turning away from the window slightly, he slowly held his finger against his mouth.

"Not a sound, O.K.?"

The boy nodded once, then Jake pulled the buffalo coat back over him. He took a deep breath, then stepped out of the stage.

"Jewelry mainly. Some cash."

"Good. You boys just about ready?"

"Yeah, boss."

The cash box was laying open, its contents already distributed amongst the horses. Jake emptied his pockets into a canvas sack and stuffed it into his saddlebag. He pulled out a flask from his vest and took a long draught.

"Hey, Donner."

Jake turned.

Frank was looking at him closely. "What's going on?"

The sweat began to bead up beneath Jake's hat. When they were kids, Frank's intuition had always amazed him. He had forgotten about that.

"Nothing, Frank."

Frank's eyes narrowed. He looked around, saw nothing amiss. His gaze rested back again on Jake. "You can clean up, Donner," he said finally. "You do a good job, you'll be segundo some day." He winked at Jake and turned towards his horse. Jake felt the sweat trickle down his neck.

"He doesn't have the nerve." Sawyer's voice was cold.

Frank mounted, looking down at Jake. "Sure he does. Don't you, Jake?"

Jake forced himself to grin. "What are you talking about?"

Frank glanced at Sawyer, then back at Jake.

"Kill them, Jake. We'll see you back there." He nodded once, spurring his horse forward, when suddenly a voice rang out, clear and cold.

"Dad -- here!"

Jake looked around, in time to see the tall passenger catching a pistol that had been thrown from the stage. Before Jake could draw, the man shot at Frank whose horse whinnied in pain and then collapsed. Frank was thrown, bellowing his rage. The women, screaming, ran for cover behind the stage. Sawyer and MacKennon started shooting, but the tall man quickly scrambled behind one of the dead horses of the team. Randy went down screaming. Shots came from the inside of the stagecoach as the young boy found another gun and turned it on the outlaws.

Jake pulled out his gun and started towards the stage, but before he took two steps he felt a bullet hit, breaking his thigh beneath him. He stepped backwards once, twice, then his face smashed into the dirt. The second shot hit below the shoulders. He felt the blood soaking his clothes and he waited for the final blow.

A calm settled into his bones. He closed his eyes and felt the heat pounding into his back. He drifted, almost happily, and hoped vaguely that someone would have enough sense to make sure that Frank was dead.

"Come on, you son of a bitch." The voice was insistent.

The darkness was so complete the Marshal didn't know if his eyes were open or closed. His head was throbbing and he could feel his shoulder bleeding through its make-shift bandage.

He shifted and felt a boot kick his leg roughly.

"You alive?" Frank's voice was hoarse.

"Yeah, I'm alive," Jake answered, pulling himself up gingerly. He was bruised and there was a nasty cut on his head, but as far as he could tell nothing was broken.

Gradually he began making out shapes in the faint blue light which filtered down from above. They had fallen down a narrow ventilation shaft into a small hollowed-out chamber at the end of a tunnel. Old wooden beams held up the walls and ceiling, wedged tightly against the jagged face of the blasted rocks. A dull glint of metal showed an abandoned ore cart. Jake was sitting on some tracks which led through the drift back to the main body of the mine.

Frank Holloway was about five feet away, watching Jake carefully.

Jake fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a match. He struck the tip against the wall and a flare of light burst through the darkness. Jake looked around the room quickly. The end of the track disappeared into a pile of loose rock where the drift had caved in. So much for that escape.

Jake glanced upwards. The shaft disappeared into darkness. All Jake could see were the timbers of the square sets that lined the chimney's rocky sides. They were splintered and rotten, but perhaps they could be climbed. Jake looked back furtively at the other man.

Frank was sitting up but his leg was saturated with blood. His right arm was hanging limply in his lap. Jake tried to see if he had a gun, but the match flickered and died too quickly for him to make sure one way or the other.

"You the law or something now?" Frank must've seen the badge on Jake's vest.

"That's right."

"Out in Jackson?"

"Yeah." Jake tried to keep his voice even.

"Well, when we die," Frank said finally, "at least we'll know where we stand."

Jake could feel the cold seeping into his bones. The only way out was up the shaft. If Frank's arm was broken, he could not escape without help. Jake wondered if Frank still had his gun. He cursed himself for losing his own.

"I'm glad to see you, Jake," Frank continued. "If I'd known it was you up there, I would've had you down for some dinner."

"Yeah, then shot me for desert."

Frank chuckled. "That's funny, Donner. But you ignore the depth of our friendship."

"I know exactly what kind of friends we are."

"You underestimate me. Like you did at the Magdalena Pass." Jake shifted uncomfortably. Frank had taken Jake back to camp, slung over the pommel of his horse. The other guys told him later that Frank had set his leg and then sat up with Jake for three nights while his body fought to live. The passengers from the stage had gotten down to Socorro and several posses were combing the hills. Still, Frank refused to leave Jake behind.

"This is a different situation, Holloway."

"You did what you thought was right, Jake," Frank went on. "Even though it was a mistake. But I saved you. I took a risk -- because you slipped up."

After that first robbery, Jake had stayed with Frank for five years. He had been filled with guilt over the disaster and spent all his energy trying to pay back his debt to Frank. He found himself becoming more violent, taking greater chances. Frank took his excesses as a personal compliment and Jake rapidly became Frank's closest partner. For his part, Jake started drinking heavily, trying to blot out what he was doing and what he had become.

Finally, in a desperate escape, Jake left one night from Tonopah, riding erratically for fourteen days straight before he allowed himself to stop and sleep for more than a few hours. Frank's men were not allowed to quit. If they tried, they were treated exactly the same as all his other victims. Jake would have welcomed death, if it had found him. But, cruelly, it did not.

Jake's head was throbbing. He found it hard to think. When Frank continued, his voice was cold. "I didn't save your life to die like a dog down here in this cave."

"That was a long time ago, Frank," Jake said finally.

"You were the best friend I ever had."

"I was never your friend. You were always the boss."

"You were tough and you were smart. I had great hopes for you, Jake. I thought someday we'd split everything - fifty-fifty."

"You couldn't have a partner if you tried."

"You just didn't have what it took to do it."

"Well, it doesn't matter much anymore, does it? You need me to escape, so I guess that makes me the boss for a change."

"You watch yourself, Donner."

"What are you going to do to me, huh?" Jake sat forward angrily. "What're you going to do?"

Frank's gun cocked loud in the stillness of the cave. "You'd leave pretty fast, wouldn't you?"

Jake held his breath and let it out slowly. So Frank did have his gun.

"Yes, Frank. I would."

"Sit back."

Jake leaned against the rocks carefully, his heart pounding.

"I was hoping you'd help me out of the goodness of your heart." Frank chuckled bitterly, reaching into his vest pocket. "Well, now you have two choices, Donner. You either stay down here with me, or we get out together."

Jake swallowed hard, watching Frank as he unscrewed the flask of whiskey.

"You'd save a kid," the outlaw continued, between thirsty swallows. "But you'd let me die down here alone."

Frank capped the flask and shoved it across the rocky floor, hitting Jake in the thigh. "Can you explain that to me?"

Suddenly, Jake felt very, very tired. He felt for the flask and held it in his hand. He remembered its shape precisely, remembered drinking from it across the country, when hiding out and when living in the best hotels. They had drunk together on trains, on boats, in caves, on horseback.

Jake unscrewed the top and let himself smell the whiskey. What would it matter? They were both probably going to die anyway. The only thing that truly counted was that all they had between them was this one small flask.

With a hand that barely trembled, Jake swallowed the burning liquid with immeasurable pleasure and relief. The liquor coursed through his body like fire, clearing his thoughts. He drank again. The whiskey filled up all the empty spaces in his soul, numbing his shoulder and calming his throbbing head. He took one more swig and leaned over, shoving the flask back to Frank.

"Thanks, Frank."

Frank grunted. "Guess you needed that."

"Guess I did."

Jake leaned back, trying to picture Elizabeth. Instead he saw Michael, standing on his favorite rock in the field across from their house. He had one of Jake's belts slung around his waist, doubled up and sagging. In his hands were his two favorite pieces of wood that Jake had haphazardly fashioned into guns. He was screaming and waving the guns, then jumping behind the rock and shooting over it. It was a game he played every day, with a myriad of variations.

Frank drained the flask, looked over at Jake. "What's it going to be, Donner?"

Jake glanced upward. The climb up the shaft would be almost impossible. Jake wondered what Michael would someday think about his father. Would be be remembered as a man who disappeared in the pursuit of justice? Or would his past come back eventually to poison whatever good might remain in his son's memory?

He looked back at Frank.

"How badly are you hurt?"

"Well, my arm's broken. And my leg is no good, thanks to your expert training in marksmanship."

"Can you stand?"

"Yeah, some." Frank waited a moment, then his voice softened a little. "What about you?"

"I can walk. The only problem is my shoulder."

"Can you reach the bottom of the shaft?"

Jake stood up tentatively and stretched over his head. The shaft started about three feet above him.

"I can reach it. It's going to be tough, though."

"Let's move this ore cart."

Jake went over and held out his hand. Frank hauled himself up with a grunt. Jake remembered how tall he used to be, how imposing. He seemed a little older now, lighter. Frank clapped him on the shoulder with his good arm, and together they shoved against the ore cart. With a squeal of protest, the wheels finally lurched into movement and they pushed it below the opening of the shaft. Jake remembered how he and Frank used to know each other's thoughts instinctively. When they worked together, they rarely needed to speak.

Once the cart was in place, Jake paused a moment, looking up the shaft. He glanced back at Frank. In the dim light he could see how pale the other man was beneath the dirt.

"Give me your gun, Frank."

"What?"

"Come on. I won't help you without it."

"You'll kill me."

"Only if you won't shut up."

"You son of a bitch."

"Let's just get out of this place, O.K.?"

Frank handed him his gun silently. Jake slipped it beneath his belt against the small of his back. They both glanced upwards, assessing the shaft. Eight inch beams were wedged into the rocky chimney in a series of five foot boxes. The wood was old and had been exposed to the elements for many years, making it friable and unstable. It was only about thirty feet up to the surface, but another fall down to the rocky floor of the chamber could finish either of them off . . . especially if the other one did not come down to help.

"I'll go first," Frank said after a moment. "You push me. Then once I'm situated, I'll get you."

Jake hauled himself to the top of the cart, then balanced on the sides. He reached up and tested the rocky walls of the shaft.

"Looks O.K. -- come on."

Jake pulled Frank to the top of the cart and then steadied him as he dragged himself into the shaft with his good arm. Once Frank found a good place to settle, he leaned down for Jake.

Jake's shoulder screamed with pain as he pulled himself up with it. He struggled past Frank, his feet scrambling for purchase until he found a foothold. Once he knew he was solid, he reached down for the other man.

Slowly and precariously, they managed to inch their way upwards, using each other's shoulders and bodies as wedges. The blood from Frank's leg began to flow freely again and soon it became hard to tell whose blood was whose. Their faces scraped on the rough edges of the rocks. Splinters wedged into their hands and dug through their clothing. Their breathing came harshly.

"So. Donner," Frank said after they had made their way about half way up the shaft. "We could use someone who knows the law."

"Uh huh." Jake braced himself against a wall, grunting as Frank stepped on his good shoulder and clawed at the next highest beam.

"You've changed, Jake. Gotten tougher." Frank reached down to grab Jake's hand. "We could be partners. Fifty-fifty."

Jake reached up as a rock suddenly crumbled under his foot.

"Aach -- !" Jake started slipping, desperately trying to grasp the crumbling beams. Frank scrambled down quickly and grabbed him, narrowly stopping his fall.

Jake clung to Frank's arm, trying not to look down. His shoulder was bleeding and he felt light-headed. Gingerly, he felt for a timber that would hold his weight. When he was secure, Jake stopped and caught his breath.

"Damn. That was close."

"What's it going to be, Jake?" Frank leaned down, his own breath coming in harsh gasps. "Next time I don't have to catch you."

Jake looked up. The outlaw's face was covered with dirt and blood, but his eyes were sharp, watching Jake closely.

"I'd want a say in what goes on," Jake said finally, pulling himself up and past the other man. The opening was just above them now.

"Of course." Frank looked up at him, weighing his sincerity.

Jake settled himself above and leaned down to help Frank. "And all scores settled."

Frank took Jake's hand. "From here on out, we're even."

Jake glanced at Frank as he crawled up past him; the strain was showing on the older man's face. He was tired, too.

"I'm sorry, Frank," Jake said, pausing a moment.

Frank looked back at Jake.

"You were my segundo." Frank said, taking his hand. "I guess that doesn't mean much to you, but it still means something to me."

They continued climbing in silence. The moonlight was shining into the old mining valley, casting cold blue shadows down the top of the shaft. It had been less than fifteen hours since Jake had heard about the wreck of the Mokelumne stage.

Jake neared the last set of timbers. His shoulder was bleeding badly. He paused and with a final grunt of exertion, he helped Frank haul himself up next to him. Grasping the rocky walls precariously, they assessed the top of the shaft. The broken timbers that boarded the hole criss-crossed about six feet above their heads. The hole was so close, and suddenly so inaccessible.

"What now?" Frank finally asked.

"Give me a boost up there and I'll get rid of the soft wood as I climb out. Then I'll lean down and pull you up."

Frank shook his head silently. "Won't work."

"Why not?"

"My leg's not strong enough to hold you. You have to be on the bottom."

Jake frowned, looking at the beams. To reach the top, one man had to straddle the shaft, balancing himself on each opposing timber of the square set. Frank's leg, if it gave out, would send them both falling back to the bottom. Jake knew neither of them had the strength to make the climb a second time.

With a grunt, Jake braced himself against the walls of the chimney and edged his feet around the side of the wooden beams. They creaked but did not splinter away as he spread his legs over the chasm. He held onto a dangling board and prayed it would hold as Frank began to gingerly climb onto his shoulders.

"Oof. Be careful, Frank."

"Just keep standing there. I'll do the hard part."

Frank straightened himself up and started to pull away the broken wood covering the shaft. The timbers beneath them groaned but Jake held steady. Frank found some sturdy cross-pieces and started to pull himself up with his good arm.

"Got it," he grunted, heaving himself over the edge. He scrambled onto the solid ground and left Jake's sight.

Jake waited. His legs were trembling and the edge of the shaft loomed just outside of his reach.

After a long moment, Frank leaned over and held out his hand.

Jake grinned as he started to grab it, then paused. Frank's eyes were cold as death.

"Come on, Jake."

Behind Frank, Jake could see a pine tree silhouetted against the clear nighttime sky. Clouds reflected the moon high above them.

"What're you going to do?" Jake asked.

"I'm going to get you out of there, you bastard."

Frank smiled, his eyes twinkling with suppressed mischief. Then he reached over and grabbed Jake's arm. Scrambling to help, Jake pushed himself up and over the edge, but Frank held tightly onto his arm, rolling him over with a strength Jake was amazed he possessed. With a quick movement, Frank yanked the gun out from Jake's belt.

Jake sat up, looking at Frank with astonishment.

"I thought we had a deal "

"I've thought it over and you're right." Frank grinned, as he cocked the gun. "I could never have a partner."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You should have waited for me to die down there."

"What?"

"You didn't have the guts." The long barrel of the gun shone in the cold moonlight. "Once you start you have to see things through. You never understood that. That's why I've always been in charge."

Jake looked at Frank. His eyes were dancing with life.

"You're crazy."

"I'm thorough."

Jake twisted violently around, throwing himself away from the shaft. Frank fired a split second afterwards. Frantically, Jake started scrambling through the pine needles. Behind him, Frank calmly reloaded his gun, savoring the moment.

Jake's hand fell on the Colt he had dropped when he fell into the mine. Jake grabbed it and pushed himself up as he whirled around, facing Frank. The other man looked up, surprised.

"The hell with you, Frank."

"The hell with you, too -- Marshal."

Frank laughed as he slammed the cylinder shut and raised his gun. But Jake pulled the trigger first.

Frank went down, his revolver shooting wild, echoing into the crisp evening air. Jake ran over to him, kicking his gun out of his hand. Frank's eyes were glazed, but he was still alive.

Jake stood over him, breathing heavily. His gun was shaking, cocked, and his hands were sweaty. A slight pressure of his index finger would end all of this. One moment of fortitude, and Frank Holloway would be silenced forever.

"Go on, you lily-livered bastard," Frank said, finally, his voice hoarse.

Jake inhaled deeply. Then, slowly, he lowered the hammer on his gun. "Don't even breathe, or I'll change my mind."

Still staring into his former partner's eyes, he slipped the gun into his belt. He leaned over and picked up Frank's revolver.

A look of vague confusion crossed behind Frank's eyes.

"Get up, Frank. You're under arrest." Jake held out his hand.

Frank looked at the extended hand and then back up at Jake.

"You've gone loco, Jake." He smiled nervously. "I admire that in a man."

"Come on."

"You're going to help me up and then kill me."

Jake smiled, but his eyes remained fixed and cold on the other man's. "That's a chance you'll have to take."

He kept his hand out.

Slowly, Frank pushed himself up to sitting. The blood from his new wound flowed bright red from beneath his shirt. He looked up at Jake, and slowly heaved himself up to a stand.

"Now what?"

"Now I take you in."

"The judge is going to be mighty interested in the stories I have to tell him about his Marshal."

"Dead men are quiet men, Frank. You won't find many people to testify against me." Jake smiled tightly. "Can you walk?"

Frank pulled himself up with a grumble and took a few steps. Jake put his hand on the older man's elbow, steadying him. Frank glanced at him suspiciously, but allowed himself to be helped as they headed back down the canyon to their horses.

It took them most of the night to ride back, travelling slowly with Jake holding the reins to Frank's horse. Jake's arm was stiff and immobile; and Frank was silent with pain from his leg. His ribs had been bruised and the skin broken from the last shot, and as the hours went on, Frank began to get feverish. Several times they stopped, bathing their wounds in the cold, dark mountain streams.

The moon set and the night became darker as they left the hills, riding down the broad alluvial plains. As the night grew old they wound down the valleys of the mother lode, riding through the sleeping mining towns. Finally, dawn began to lighten the sky as Jake turned their horses southward on the road which led towards Jackson. The Marshal glanced over at Frank.

"You must be feeling bad. I expected an endless speech about how I didn't have the guts to shoot you when I could."

"This time I figure I shouldn't complain."

"They're going to hang you. This isn't out of mercy."

"I haven't found a jail yet that I couldn't break out of."

"You've never been in mine," Jake laughed.

The rays of the rising sun hit the outlying buildings of town, highlighting the stand of trees curving along by the river. The white wooden steeple of a church glowed with an orange gold.

"You're a fool," Frank said finally.

"Yeah, maybe so."

Jake breathed in deeply, looking around. Far off to the east, the mountains rose blue and serene, hiding a group of leaderless outlaws who would soon be found in their wayward confusion. The money would be returned and the mysterious hollows of the canyons would be silent once more. Jake thought about Michael, who was probably just waking up now, only twenty-four hours after his father had left. He'd have to take the boy up to the mountains one day, Jake thought. When he's a little older. Now that it's safe.