His knife cut the rope and the body dropped to the ground with a thud. Galen Helliwell swung down from his horse and knelt beside the corpse.

"No way for any man to end up, friend." He frowned at the torn trousers and the claw marks on the purplish skin of the legs. With the tip of his knife he pushed the shirt material open, spotting a silver chain resting under the coarse rope that cinched the neck. Carefully cutting away the material, he also found a folded piece of paper, and after a few minutes of cautious cutting and prodding, he stood, holding the chain and locket in one hand, and reading the piece of paper in the other.

Galen had never seen a bank draft before, and his eyes lingered on the amount of five hundred dollars, and the two signatures at the bottom. It was made out to a Caleb Weston, payable at a bank in Pine Ridge, and dated a month ago in the current year. Galen popped open the locket and saw facing pictures of a young couple, the man, he figured, was the body on the ground at his feet. There was still enough to recognize and compare.

"Seems there's a young lady won't be hearin' from you again, Caleb." He pocketed the items then dragged the body to a small copse of trees and buried it as best he could with his hands, using available sticks and rocks. "What did you do, son, to git yourself hung?" He took his hat off, muttered a few words then, whistled for his horse; Pine Ridge was a few days away, and not where he was originally headed.

Bedford Creek

The sign read Town of Bedford Creek, but it looked more like a settlement than a town. Windblown, dusty, and the namesake creek, little more than a small track running right down the road between a scattering of tents, and a few wooden structures. Galen pulled up in front of the saloon, one of the wooden structures and second largest to the hotel next door. He hitched his horse, dragged his saddlebags off and pushed through the wooden doors, hearing them creak as they swung to a halt behind him.

The room was small, with only a few tables near the pot-bellied stove in the centre. A short counter, serving as a bar, blocked the entrance to a back room, with a few glasses and a bottle the only indication he could actually get a drink. One of the men got up from beside the stove and went behind the little counter, looking expectantly at Galen.

"You drinkin'?"

Galen dropped his bags at his feet and picked up a glass. "Fill this."

"That's fifty cents - afore I pour."

The coins hit the counter with a flat plunk, and he held the glass while the man poured, then turned to face the room, sipping slowly.

"You got business here, stranger?" The man behind the counter asked

"Maybe. You got a bank here?"

"Fred Dankworth runs the general store, he takes care of most of that business for us."

"So, no bank?"

"Fred'll see you for supplies if that's what your needin'. He runs an account for folks who can't pay right up."

"How about that hotel, they rent rooms, or is it just for pleasure?"

"They got a few . . ."

Galen finished his drink and set the glass on the counter. "For sleepin'?"

There was a laugh from a couple of men by the stove. "Miss Cynthia sure won't like it if that's all you want."

"That's all I want. That and a place to stable my horse."

"Cross the street and down beside the blue tent," the barman said. "Old Grunge runs the livery."

"Thanks." He picked up his bags and left the saloon, one ear cocked to the murmurs that followed him out. Old Grunge wanted two dollars to board and feed his horse for the night, promising to take right good care of such a fine animal. Galen gave him a dollar, tilting his head to remind the old man, he would get the rest if his promise was true.

Cynthia Russell greeted him at the door and took his arm before he could object. She wore a puffy green taffeta gown with stains on the skirt, her shocking red hair was gathered in a careless pile and pinned with a large red feather.

"Welcome to the Bedford Hotel, cowboy. We have everything to shake the trail dust off and ease them saddle weary bones."

"I ain't a cowboy, but I am weary, and I want a room for the night - to sleep."

Her face fell, and the hair pile tipped precariously with disappointment. "Don't get many fine lookin' men like yourself here that just want to sleep." She cuddled his arm.

"Maybe I'll get a special rate then, seein' as how I'm a rare bird."

The cuddle ceased, and she swished over to the wall beside the stairs. "Two dollars for the night. First room, left, at the top of the stairs."

He grinned and handed her the money, tipping his hat and climbing up to the second floor.

➰➰➰➰➰

Galen woke, blinking and knuckling his eyes clear. It was beginning to lighten outside and he sat up, pulling on his boots and yawning. The small stick of wood he'd jammed in the door frame hadn't been disturbed, and he slipped it back in his saddlebag. A bowl and a jug of cold water allowed for a wash and a quick shave. Galen wasn't a fan of facial hair. He studied that face in the dirty mirror, baring his teeth and opening his grey eyes wide, concluding they still had a lot of miles left. The short scar on his chin made him smile; it stayed white no matter how much his face darkened from the sun.

Finishing dressing, he stared out at the street and over toward the livery. Old Grunge was talking with three men, standing by their horses. With a sniff and a sigh, he gathered his things, checked the room and left, clumping down the stairs to the lobby. Nobody was around, and he figured the occupants weren't early risers. One of the tents he'd seen on his way in boasted a sign that read, home cooking, all day, and he headed there for some breakfast.

Ducking under the flap, his nostrils flared at the strong smell of grease and hot fat, and he chose a bench seat near the opening. Slapping his bags down beside him, he looked at the tiny woman wearing a ten gallon hat, apron, and brandishing a large fork.

"Coffee, steak and eggs, two dollars, mister."

Galen grinned, "This place should be called Two Dollar Creek, I think."

The frown indicated she didn't get it, and he said that was fine, could he get the coffee right then.

"You passin' through, or you got business here?"

"What kind of business could a stranger have here?" He countered.

There was a loud hiss as the steak hit the pan, and she held her hand in front of her face. "Pannin' mostly I guess. Them hills to the west have showed some promise."

"That why you're here?" He asked.

There was another hiss as she flopped the meat in the pan. "Not hardly. Fools, all of them, but they need to eat, and I can provide that."

"Where do you get beef around here?"

"Stage. Comes from Pine Ridge once a week on its way through to Fort Collier. I get most of my supplies from them. Also got a decent sized garden out back and a few hens."

As she came from her stove with his food, the tent flap opened again, and the three men he'd seen at the livery stepped inside.

"Looks like we're just in time, Cookie."

Galen saw her face pale and shoulders slump. "I ain't had no business yet today."

"Well, I see a feller right over there havin' one of your five dollar meals."

She glanced at Galen, fear stamped on her face. "He just got here. He ain't paid yet."

"That's okay, Cookie," the talker smiled and strolled over to Galen. "He can pay us, right, Mister?"

"I'll pay the lady when I'm finished eating."

"I don't think you heard me. You can pay me - now."

He saw the man's hand rest on the butt of his holstered gun, and he turned slowly on the bench toward him, one eye on the other two still standing by the flap door.

"You work here, do you?"

There was a snicker from one of the other men, and the talker turned to glare. In that instant, Galen clamped his hand over the man's gun hand, and rested the steak knife against his stomach, just above the belt.

"You boys find your way out now, unless you want to have to come over here and carry your friend with you." When they didn't move right away, Galen pushed the knife gently forward.

"Get outside," the man hollered, his eyes fixed on the knife blade. "Now!"

"You just ease that hog leg out and drop it on the ground, partner." Galen swung around and stood up, the knife still against the man's stomach. "Now tell me why you think you can come in and take this lady's money?"

"You're in big trouble, mister."

"Where I stand, it looks like it's you that's got the trouble, so answer my question."

The lady came and clutched at his arm. "Please, I don't want any fuss. I will pay as soon as I can," she said to the talker.

"It's no trouble, ma'am. I think these fellas should just find another way to make a livin'." He pulled the knife back and watched as the man considered his chances fighting.

"Go ahead. My breakfast's gettin' cold." Galen offered.

With a sneer and an oath, the man turned and slapped his way past the tent flap.

"You okay?" Galen put an arm around the little woman.

"They'll be back. They do this to everyone in town."

"Who are they? Where are they from?"

"They work for a man, or many men, who don't live here. They come once every three weeks to collect our money or they burn us out. There have been two killings already."

"So there's no law here."

"That was one of the killings."

"Doesn't anyone think of joining forces and fighting back?"

"That was the other killing. The town barber tried to get the men together. When they found out, they killed him."

Galen took out enough money to cover her payment and forced it into her hands. "I'd love some coffee to go, and you can wrap the rest of that steak for me."

"You must be careful. They will be waiting."

"I know. But they won't have to wait long." He bent down and picked up the discarded pistol.