George Washington Barnes stroked his deep brown beard and patted Jenny on the neck, telling the mare to take a break. He turned and asked his companion, "How bad is it?"

Dismounted, Trooper Dave Early lifted his horse's lower leg, pulled his knife and answered, "Picked up a small stone. Easy to remove." After he deftly pried the rock from under the horse's left front shoe and showed it to his mount, he held it up to the ranger, "There it be."

"Good work. Mount up." G.W., Texas Ranger for 12 years and now helping the army, had been riding this territory since the Mexican War ended. That morning, the commander at Fort Belknap sent him and Early south on the Marcy wagon road to search for an overdue army paymaster.

Dave swung his leg over his saddle and lightly nudged his horse, "Let's go, Billyboy." About ten quiet miles farther south, the bored 18-year-old tried to strike up what his grandpa called 'polite palaver' with the well-respected lawman known as G.W. "You know, I named Billyboy here after my younger brother who drowned in a Carolina river. It was his 12th birthday."

"Sorry for your loss, trooper." The 31-year-old was a man of action and few words.

"Captain, I've never heard of a man who chose a mare for long trail riding. That name, Jenny, where'd it come from?"

"Same as Billyboy there. Named for a lost loved one." The stoic lawman stiffened and continued to stare straight to the front. His manner and tone declared the subject private and not for idle conversation.

Early watched the captain wipe his face with a bright colorful Mexican bandanna which he then retied around his neck. The young soldier changed subjects, "How far we gonna look?"

"If need be, all hundred miles to Fort Chadbourne. Trooper, soldiers deserve to be paid. They've earned our best effort, no matter how long it takes, or how much dust we eat."

"Captain, look up ahead. Buzzards!"

"I see them." He sped up Jenny, and Dave spurred Billyboy.

As they galloped toward the buzzards, Dave Early pulled his army Dragoon and shot into the air. A dozen or so feeding buzzards took off. "Damn scavengers."

G.W. pulled his Navy Colt from the hip and instantly shot at the scattered birds. The one furthest from the scene tumbled from the sky. Nothing said, he re-holstered.

Dave, dismounting, whispered to himself, "That explains the man's reputation."

They both stood and stared at the gruesome sight before them. Four dead soldiers, arrows in all. Two had been lashed to wagon wheels and set afire; another in the road about 15 feet from the wagon; and the fourth up ahead, spread out on the ground arms seemingly still reaching for thicket brush and possible escape.

"Damn Indians, worse than scavengers," said a shaking Early who visibly gulped, turned quickly and vomited on the road. He then wiped his mouth with uniformed sleeve. "Comanche vultures?"

"Possibly," G.W. said. He turned to the young trooper, "Dave, how long have you been in this part of Texas?"

"Almost two months."

"Your first bodies?"

"Yes, captain. My first time away from the fort's shadow. What do you want me to do?"

"Vomit again, if need-be, then rinse your mouth out. Take Billyboy and look for tracks leaving the area. My best guess is they rode southwest, or even straight south. I am going to look over the bodies. Stay within sight of the wagon. Search in circles with the wagon as your center point."

"Yes, sir. On my way." The trooper saddled up and rode his horse slowly away from the carnage. Dave promised himself he would never puke again while wearing a uniform. Not manly for a soldier. His stomach was unsettled, but he kept his eyes looking to the ground for signs of fleeing horses.

G.W. stepped carefully as he moved toward the two burnt soldiers draped on wagon wheels. As was his way, he talked to Jenny, "That boy sure ate a big breakfast. Another young one looking for his manhood on the frontier. He now knows the world is cruel. The army may help you grow up, but it does not guarantee a ripe old age. These four lifeless bodies back me up on that."

At the wagon, he turned to his task. Two arrows, possibly Comanche, protruded from each body. The older soldier, with sergeant stripes, also had two visible bullet holes. The burned condition of the bodies hindered G.W.'s inspection. There was no sign of a strong box or mail pouch near the wagon.

The ugly smell of burnt flesh and death lingered, but nothing human nor human-made, was warm to G.W.'s touch. The evil doers likely had a half-day's lead or more.

G.W. walked over to the body still in the road. The uniform was an officer's and a lieutenant's cap lay nearby. Three arrows and a piece of broken lance protruded from the body. A bullet hole between the man's eyes dominated his death mask. There were more bullet holes in the body. "Not Indians." G.W. bent down and pulled out the piece of lance and checked the blood- stained tip, then pocketed it. "Definitely not Comanches."

As he was ending his study of the fourth dead soldier, off road and near the brush, he heard Early returning. With the scene digested, G.W. met the boy dismounting near the wagon.

"Captain, I found tracks heading southwest. Three or four horses."

"Were the horses shod?"

"Yes. I saw no sign of unshod horses." Quick to support his findings, Dave boasted of working in a cousin's livery stable for a year.

"Son, I knew you were horse smart when I watched you take the stone from your buddy's shoe earlier. You treat your horse like family, not a work slave. You're green in other areas. What do the shoed horses tell you about our thieves?"

Dave, chest puffed out a little, "Likely not Indians."

"Correct. Come here." G.W. pointed to the two dead soldiers tied to the wagon. What do you make of all those bullet holes?"

Dave, after closely looking over the bodies answered, "A busy trigger finger, pulled often and hard, by hate."

"Hate, definitely. Indians aren't the sole haters out here. Whites can hate just as much. Hate is hate, no matter what the cause. Indians get their guns from dead settlers and dead soldiers. But, ammunition is hard for them to come by. Those unnecessary bullet holes are a waste."

The captain added, "Waste is much more a habit of white men."

"Sir, what about that officer's forehead shot?"

"A shot for show. Popular with white men. Indians more likely to torture than end misery. Dave, take a look at this." The ranger removed the broken spear tip from his pocket. "How would you harden that wood so snapping would not be so easy?" He handed the tip to Dave.

The young trooper, barely took a look, "Burning would do it."

"Right answer...and Comanches do it with spears they make. This attack was conducted by white devils seeking to pass blame to red devils. White bandits who rode away with the strong box and possibly a bag of mail for campfire amusement ... if any of the four can read."

"Sure it's four, captain?"

"Yep. That body out by the brush was a runner and there are prints from two chasing horses. Makes no sense two would chase during a fight if there were only three in the gang. You were right, three or four riders."

"Captain, we going to bury them?"

"Enough to protect them from critters for a few days. Two graves, two bodies each. You grab the shovel from the wagon side, choose a location and begin. I'll put the horses in some shade, and give them some grain and water. After checking the bodies one last time for any identification, I'll move them over by the grave site and spell you."

"We heading out when we're done?"

"Remaining daylight will decide that. Now that we know they're heading southwest, we could make Phantom Hill before night time. Let's get it done."

Within a couple of hours, the companions, sweaty and a little tired, stood with hats off by two hastily dug graves.

G.W. spoke, "Lord, we only know these four men as soldiers. Having chosen to wear the uniform, they accepted a dangerous life, mostly thankless, and painfully led by other men who often prove far too human. Please take care of them, Lord. They died supporting others. And please look out for their families. Amen."

Hats back on their heads, the temporary mourners returned to their horses.

"Southwest, sir?"

"Just follow the tracks, Dave. Can't go wrong."

Their progress was quietly steady, but Dave wanted to talk. "Captain, why Phantom Hill? Wasn't the fort destroyed?"

"The troops moved out and the post was officially closed. Then, somebody ... Indians or disgruntled soldiers ... set the buildings on fire. Camping in the ruins will place us above the north-south road from Camp Smith to Chadbourne. A column led by the new area commander left Smith yesterday and headed south along the road to ease 'Indian problems'."

"Captain is there ever peace out here?"

"Not lately. More settlers moving to the new state, while eager gold hunters pass headed to California. Indian land is in the way of both, so conflict is certain. Dave, progress is a confusing thing, and often deadly. This has been the world's way since Biblical times. Right or wrong. Americans did not invent it and Indians did not invite it."

After a drink from his canteen, G.W. continued, "Both sides will fight hard, and the natives will lose. You come from the East and already know this. Indians here, also know what happened in the land where the sun rises. They will fight for survival."

"What about the killers we are tracking?"

"They are simply killers who tried to use Indian reputation to hide their bad acts. Not much different than renegades who flee reservations to murder and plunder. They prefer peaceful Indians in government areas are blamed."

"No way to win."

"Very true. Dave, no way to win is the same as no way to survive." G.W. raised his arm and pointed, "Do you see anything on the hill?"

"Some wood ruins and I think, brick chimneys."

"Good, young eyes. That's where we spread our bedrolls for the night."

An hour later, the two men sat around their campfire, built with
wood left from the previous year's fire. "Not the best rattlesnake I ever ate," said G.W..

Dave offered, "Maybe it would taste better if you shot it. It took me three damn shots."

"Me shooting it would not change the flavor. I had you shoot for practice. A slow snake just waking from its winter rest seemed proper. For me, a single knife throw. G.W. walked to his saddle bags, pulled a bottle, and offered it to Dave. "It's hard, go easy. You've earned it today."

Dave swallowed, shuddered, then mumbled, "Good stuff." He passed back the bottle.

G.W. swigged a mouthful. "I find the cheaper stuff packs more wallop than the fancy stuff hid behind the bar. The guy I got this from called it sour mash."

After four drinks and man-like banter under the stars, Dave impulsively changed the mood, "Captain, I was with Billy when he drowned. I still see him bobbing up and down in the muddy water. I froze, scared, and did nothing to help him."

"Hand me the bottle, you're done." G.W. took a last drink and capped the bottle. "Dave, you were young. Are you a good swimmer? Any rope handy to throw him? I already know the answers because of our one day together. You're a good kid, bright and caring. What you call fear, was your common sense preventing a second death that day."

After returning the mash to his saddlebag, G.W. struggled to continue,"I loved Jenny. She was carrying my child inside her when she died. I was helpless."

"What happened?"

"Stray bullet from celebrating soldiers at the war's end. Bullet flew into the saloon where Jenny worked." He paused, undid the bandanna around his neck, shook sand from it and wiped his face.

"When I got there, she was on the floor in a pool of blood. The bullet had found her life-bearing stomach. This was her scarf and I've worn it everyday since. Like your brother's drowning, an unexpected bolt of death. Son, the painful memory haunts when there is no real goodbye, or last words to each other. Now, try going to sleep."

It was sunup when G.W. tossed his cup of coffee to the ground and jumped toward his saddle. "Horses coming fast."

Dave ran over and untied Billyboy and Jenny. The two horses chose their own paths to safety and he rushed back to the campfire area.

G.W., hunkered down behind his saddle with rifle in hand, bullet chambered, was staring toward a narrow path between two destroyed buildings. Dave unsheathed his rifle and flopped down near G.W. "They still coming?"

"Horses stopped. Probably on foot. Keep your eyes on the area left of the tallest chimney and perk up your dog ears. I'll take the area on the right."

Dave, wondering why he felt so nervous, "Captain, do you know who's out there? Could they be friendly?"

"Friendly people in this country identify themselves as soon as possible to avoid being shot. Right now, I've got a bad feeling." Two shots rang from their right and G.W., pain instant, knew both bullets had hit him. He knew the second one had his name on it. "I'm hit...badly. Lot of pain."

"Where you hit?" No answer. More bullets came, this time from the left. In succession, they struck the ground near the campfire, Dave's saddle, and then his left thigh. It burned. He returned fire to where he believed the shooter had fired from.

It was quiet for a moment, before Dave heard someone scrambling and then running in the other direction. Dave crawled to G.W.'s side, "Captain, they're leaving."

"Help coming, too late for me." G.W. had never felt such pain and talking was near impossible. Worse than the three previous times he'd been shot, bullets or Comanche arrow. Blood was flowing too freely. This was the end.

Dave was unable to make out all G.W.'s words. He bent over the dying ranger and put his ear within inches of the man's still moving lips, "Take me to Jenny." The last words heard, last words spoken. Dave was stunned.

After about 10 minutes, Dave untied G.W.'s neck bandanna. He placed it over the bearded face of a local legend, fought some tears, and took a look at his own leg. The hole was pretty big, but the bullet had gone through. Dave used his own bandanna to stem the bleeding.

He looked up, as a dozen or so cavalrymen rode up and halted nearby upon orders from a captain out front. "How long ago did you and your companion get ambushed?

"No more than an hour, sir."

The officer turned to the soldiers. "Sergeant Joyce, keep two men here and give this trooper some help. Check his leg first. Looks awful bloody. The detachment and I will hunt down the murdering scoundrels who did this."

A grizzled sergeant left the group and barked orders, " Troopers Jones and Wright, with me."

"Forward, men." The captain led his mounted cavalry east through the ruins.

The sergeant, horse tied up moved toward Dave, barking over his shoulder, "Jones, rear guard. Wright out front. No more than 30 yards and take your mounts."

"Son, I am Sgt. Hiram Joyce."

"Trooper Dave Early, out of Fort Belnap."

Sergeant Joyce nodded toward G.W.'s body. "Who is this unlucky fellow?"

Dave pulled away the scarf, "This is..."

Joyce interrupted in a subdued voice, "George Washington Barnes. I know, son. Before the war, he and I ran together. Like brothers."

"Did you know, Jenny?"

"He talked about Jenny with you?"

"Yes. Dying, he asked to be buried with her."

"We can do that. Joyce knelt and began cutting Dave's make shift bandage off his leg. He flushed it with canteen water and wrapped it with white linen from his saddle bag. We'll get you to the company surgeon, but I believe your leg is safe."

"Thank you, sarge."

"Anything for a compatriot of G.W.'s.

"You know, I was there when he met Jenny. She was known as Isabel then. Amazing beauty, always smiling, loved horses. She was made of several breeds, including Caddo Indian and Louisiana Cajun. One night, she heard a drunk singing about a girl named Jeanie. She told G.W. she wanted to be his Jenny, and so it was."

"Sergeant, he was haunted by her death."

"Ever since," Joyce agreed. "He was changed permanently. Drank more and talked a lot about death. We even made a ten dollar bet on how we'd die. He chose at the hands of Indians for me, and I chose bad guys for him. A useless bet, which I unfortunately won."

"Sgt. Joyce, meaning no disrespect, I don't think you won. The George Washington Barnes I shared sour mash and rattlesnake with, would say he died at the hands of progress."

"Young trooper, I'll accept that."