Lettie Henderson had made a big mistake. She knew it, and she was willing to admit it to herself. Things had not turned out as she had planned since leaving St. Louis to search for her father’s murderer, Steadman Finch. But how could she have known that Harvey would contract cholera? He had been frail and sickly since he was a baby, and most of her friends in St. Louis had tried to convince her that her older brother could not stand up to the rugged land beyond the Missouri. It turned out they were right. Harvey had only made it about twenty miles past Fort Kearny before coming down with the debilitating sickness so many feared. That didn’t mean she had been wrong to start out on the journey—just unlucky. They had actually been doing just fine. The weather had been good, and they had made good time ever since leaving Westport Landing.
She had done the best she could for Harvey when he became ill, but she was forced to watch helplessly as he retched his fragile life away until there was nothing left of him but a sheet of thin skin stretched over some bones.
Poor, sweet Harvey. He had been as zealous as she to pack up and head out across the country in search of the man who had murdered their father. The mistake she had made, and now feared she was in danger of paying for, was in the hiring of Henry Bingham to guide them. Unwilling to spend the time to check Mr. Bingham’s references because of the approaching winter, they had hired him wholly upon his word. Bingham had run off as soon as it was suspected that Harvey’s sudden illness was cholera. He had heard the many tales of cholera epidemics and was not willing to expose himself to the possibility of catching it. Lettie suspected he had not run very far and had been keeping his eye on them from a distance, for as soon as poor Harvey was safely in the ground, Bingham had come slinking back, claiming his conscience wouldn’t permit him to leave her all alone after contracting to take her to find Steadman Finch. He had showed up a little before dark, as contrite as could be, talking about how much he had worried about her.
There was little doubt in Lettie’s mind that Bingham had returned solely because of the money he suspected was hidden in the wagon. What Bingham didn’t know was that the money was not in any of the bags or satchels packed in the wagon. It was sewn inside her flannel drawers, and she vowed that if he or any other man found it, it would be on her cold, dead body. Wearing Harvey’s revolver on her slender hip, she made it obvious to Bingham that she was not to be considered easy pickings.
The decision to terminate his contract had been made the instant he set foot back in camp. She hadn’t told him of it yet, but she was of the opinion that she would not be safe alone in his company. Since Fort Kearny was only one day’s ride back east, she felt now was the time to notify him of the change in plans.
After waiting for him to place new limbs on the fire and settle himself, she said, “I won’t be needing your services any longer, Mr. Bingham. Since my brother is dead, I think I’ll turn back to Fort Kearny.” Her statement caused him to jerk his head up quickly, but, before he could respond, she went on. “Of course, I’ll pay you for taking me this far.”
His eyes dull as slate, he stared at her for a few moments before speaking. “Well, now, that sure is a right sad piece of news at this late date. I had to make a lot of changes in my plans to guide you out to Montana. Your sudden decision to turn back is gonna cause me some hardship. It’s a long way back to St. Louis. Yes, ma’am, no doubt about that. But I reckon it’ll be all right if you just pay me the whole fee we agreed on.”
Lettie was firm in her response. “I think the advance you were paid in St. Louis should be sufficient to compensate you for your trouble to this point. I believe your desertion in the face of my brother’s tragic illness would more than justify the cancellation of the agreement we made. I’ll need what money I’ve got left—I’ve decided to take the train to Ogden in Utah territory. It’s getting too late in the season to continue with a wagon. I see now that we were too optimistic in starting out, even before my brother fell ill.”
“You’re gonna take the train,” Bingham repeated with a hint of contempt in his voice. “What about Steadman Finch? Who’s gonna help you find him?”
“I’ll hire someone in Ogden to guide me.” She strove to maintain a firm posture.
“What about the wagon and the horses?” He continued to press her.
“I’ll sell them at Fort Kearny.”
He didn’t say anything more for a long moment while he stood staring at her with eyes as lifeless as coal. His mind already made up, he glanced around him briefly, although there was no one in sight for miles.
Lettie’s instincts told her that he was contemplating some evil deed, so she backed away a step and let her hand rest on the handle of her pistol. “I think it would be best if you take your leave now, Mr. Bingham,” she said, striving to keep her voice from quavering.
Bingham watched her intently, considering his possibilities. A slight smile began to form at the corners of his mouth as he took a step toward her. “Well, all right, missy, if that’s the way you want it.” His smile broadened. “No harm done, I reckon. I’ll just git my stuff together and be on my way.”
Lettie relaxed a little, relieved that he seemed to be agreeable to the parting—she should not have. He turned as if starting toward his horse. Then, before she could draw the pistol from its holster, he was upon her, knocking her to the ground. She tried to roll over so she could free her weapon, but he pounced upon her, pinning her arms against her sides. She fought to maintain possession of the weapon, but he easily overpowered her. Tearing away with her revolver now in his hand, he got to his feet and stood back a few steps, the pistol aimed at her.
“Now, I reckon I’ll be the one what says what’s gonna happen. First off, you owe me some money. You can save me some time by tellin’ me where you got it hid.” When she didn’t reply, he grinned playfully. “Come on, now, it ain’t gonna do you no good. I’m bound to find it. Might as well make this as easy as we can.”
“I’m not going to tell you anything,” Lettie replied defiantly. “I’m very disappointed in you, Mr. Bingham. I should have suspected you were a dishonest person. And you’ve had a surly attitude ever since we left St. Louis.”
Bingham grinned again, unable to hide his amusement at her scolding. “My, my,” he clucked. “I do apologize for being so rude.” He moved to stand directly over her. Placing the pistol in his belt and extending a hand toward her, he said, “Here, give me your hand.” She would not take it, watching him warily. “Come on,” he coaxed, as if trying to calm a horse. “Come on, take my hand. I’ll help you up.”
Still she did not move, continuing to sit there in the dust while his hand remained extended toward her. After several minutes had passed with no motion by either party, she finally succumbed, grasped his hand, and started to pull herself up.
“That’s better,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her up toward him. When she was almost on her feet, he suddenly slugged her with his free hand, driving her back down upon the ground. The force of his fist against her jaw rattled her brain to the point where she was almost unconscious. “Now, let’s git one thing straight,” he advised. “If you sit there like a good little girl, I might not hurt you. But it’s gonna be hell to pay for you if you make me any trouble, ’cause I’ll hurt you bad.” She lay there in a painful stupor while he turned and proceeded to start rummaging through the wagon.
After a few minutes, her head started to clear. She managed to get up on her hands and knees. Still groggy, she stared at her assailant through glazed eyes. She had never known personal violence in her young life, and the shock of her first experience with such brutal behavior was almost enough to totally incapacitate her. Bingham paid her very little attention, glancing in her direction from time to time as he pulled personal possessions from the packs and left them strewn upon the ground. Unsuccessful in finding what he searched for in the packs, he paused to give her a hard look before turning his attention to her late brother’s gear. Though he spoke not a word, that look promised more violence to come if he didn’t find the money soon. She almost cried out as she felt the warm tears of terror well in her eyes, and the throbbing of her jaw seemed to intensify with every beat of her heart.
Now she heard him cursing to himself as each compartment and each sack yielded nothing more than clothing and various dried foods and cooking utensils, his anger increasing by the second. Finding nothing in the wagon, he rifled the contents of her brother’s saddlebags. Finally, when his search was completed with nothing to show for his efforts, he spun around to face her, but she was no longer there.
“I shoulda looked there in the first place,” he muttered, realizing that she must have hidden the money somewhere on her person. It did not concern him that she was gone when he turned around. It would do her no good to run. There were very few places to hide along the creek bank where they had made their camp, and there were miles of open prairie beyond that.
Feeling no need for urgency, he untied his horse and stepped up into the saddle. In her haste to escape, Lettie had left an obvious trail through the sandy loam beside the creek. It was no trouble for Bingham to follow even in the failing evening light. The tracks led him down along the water, weaving around the thin line of cottonwoods that lined the bank, and into the shallow creek. He smiled to himself when he saw the imprint on the other side where she had fallen as she tried to run up the bank after leaving the water. He prodded his horse with his heels and crossed over. Once clear of the brambles that competed with the cottonwoods for the stream’s nourishment, he looked out across the prairie. Espying her right away, he paused to watch her for a moment. Over a hundred yards away by then, she staggered drunkenly as she tried to run, her wind obviously having just about played out. Knowing he had all the time in the world, he held his horse to a walk.
When he was within twenty yards of overtaking her, Lettie heard the sound of his horse over the labored gasps of her breathing. She looked back at him and tried to scream, her face a desperate mask of terror. But she had no wind left to scream for help. Bingham could scarcely hear her thin cry. He chuckled to himself, amused by her helplessness.
Guiding his horse up against her, he took one foot from the stirrup and planted it between her shoulder blades, sending her crashing headfirst to the ground. Seeing the girl was spent, he took his time dismounting. “Well, now,” he said, standing over her, “are we gonna do this the easy way or the hard way?”
Still gasping for breath, she tried to crawl away from him. “Get away from me,” she pleaded, pushing herself through the dust as he paced her step for step.
“Have it your way,” he said with a shrug. “Makes no never mind to me one way or the other.” He placed his foot in her side and kicked her over onto her back. Before she could recover, he was on top of her, straddling her. When she tried to fight him, he slapped her hard across her face with the back of his hand. Although the blow made her head spin, she still struggled to resist him, but her efforts were becoming more and more feeble. His face a picture of pointed determination, he grabbed a handful of the heavy shirt she wore and, with one violent move, ripped it down the middle, revealing her long flannel underwear. “Huh,” he grunted, surprised to find her wearing long johns. She made a desperate attempt to resist, but he easily overcame her efforts, ripping the buttons down the front.
Halted momentarily by the sight of her exposed chest, he stared stupidly at finely sculptured breasts that lay like perfect mounds of alabaster. “Damn,” he exclaimed. “You ain’t as young as you look. If I’da knowed what you been hiding under that shirt, I mighta made my move before we got to Westport.” Stunned for only a moment, and driven by his lust for her money, he recovered to continue his search of her body. The money first, he decided, then the girl, knowing that he would kill her afterward.
“Come on, honey, I know you got it on you somewhere.” Running his hand under the gun belt she wore and down inside her underwear, his fingers touched a pocket sewn inside the garment. “Hot damn!” he exclaimed. “I think I found something here.”
She tried to claw at him with her nails, but he was too quick, grabbing her wrist before she could strike him. Feeling satisfied with himself now, he didn’t bother to retaliate. His face lit up with an evil grin as his hand groped farther down into her long johns. If she heard the sharp crack that ripped the evening air, it didn’t register in her terrified brain. She wasn’t even aware of her own screaming until Bingham’s grin froze briefly on his face and then melted away, replaced by a look of horrified disbelief. Then suddenly he was gone, snatched from her body in the wink of an eye, the fingernails of his groping hand leaving raw marks across her belly.
Unable to believe her eyes, Lettie sat up to discover a man on horseback dragging Bingham behind him. Bound by the end of a whip lashed tightly around his throat, the hapless man clawed frantically to free his windpipe as his body bumped unceremoniously over the rough ground. She gazed in wonder at the man who had appeared from nowhere to dispatch Mr. Bingham in such rude fashion. Still unsteady, she managed to get to her feet, not sure if she should try to run or not.
The stranger pulled his horse to a stop about fifty yards away from her and turned to face Bingham, who was now on his feet, still trying to free his throat of the rawhide coil. The stranger sat silently watching Bingham, a rifle lying across his saddle. Shaken and bruised, Bingham finally flung the end of the whip from him. Almost in the same instant, he pulled the pistol from his belt and fired. In his haste to vent his anger, he didn’t take time to aim the weapon, and his shot went wide of the mark. He did not have the luxury of a second shot. Before he could pull the trigger again, he was struck in the chest with a .45 slug from the stranger’s Winchester.
Jim Culver held his rifle trained on the wounded man, ready to put another bullet in him if necessary. But the pistol dropped from Henry Bingham’s hand, falling harmlessly in the prairie dust. Bingham stared at Jim, unseeing, for what seemed to Lettie to be minutes before he finally crumpled to the ground. Only then did the stranger take his eyes off him and dismount.
“Are you all right, miss?” Jim asked as Lettie hurriedly pulled her torn shirt together in an effort to cover her exposed bosom. He reached down and picked up the pistol that had fallen from Bingham’s hand.
“Yes,” she stammered, not really sure. “I think so.” She watched the stranger with a wary eye, not certain at this point if she had been rescued from one peril only to be subjected to another.
“My name’s Jim Culver,” he said. “I hope that man was not your husband.” There had been no way he could have known if he was interrupting a family fight or not. If it was, he knew that it was no way for a husband to treat his wife, so he felt he had been left with little choice but to interfere. As far as the shooting was concerned, that had been Bingham’s choice and not his. His intention had been simply to stop the lady’s obvious distress.
“Heavens, no,” Lettie replied at once. “He was my guide. No, I think you have just saved my life, sir.”
“Then I guess it’s good I came along when I did,” Jim said. He had an opportunity now to take a closer look at the second damsel in distress he had rescued. He realized that she looked a bit younger than he had first imagined. He dismounted and dropped Toby’s reins. Although he had scouted the camp and found no one before riding in, he looked around him now, half-expecting other members of the party to appear out of the growing darkness. But no one showed, which brought to mind the obvious question: What was a young lady doing out here on the prairie with no one but a guide? A rather frail young lady at that, he thought as he studied the thin white face, now slightly lopsided with a red welt and a lump on one cheek. He couldn’t help but blink when his gaze lifted to find two dark doelike eyes locked on his, and he realized that he was being evaluated with even more intensity. He attempted to put her mind at ease.
“My name’s Jim Culver,” he repeated. “I came across your camp back yonder by the creek. I wondered where everybody was. Then I heard you scream, and I decided I’d better come have a look.” He endeavored to form a friendly expression on his face. The girl still seemed a little nervous. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Gradually, she began to relax her guard, sensing the honesty in his voice. “Yes,” she answered after a furtive glance in the direction of Bingham’s body. “I’m all right now.”
“Here, maybe you better hang on to this.” He handed her the pistol, noticing she wore an empty holster. “I’m wondering what in the world you’re doing out here and how you happened to be with that fellow. You say he was a guide?”
“He said he was,” she answered, calm again now that she sensed this stranger intended no harm. “Although I’m afraid it was poor judgment on our part. I’m not sure he had the slightest idea where he was leading my brother and me.
“I doubt he intended to lead you anywhere except maybe the middle of nowhere,” Jim said. “Why don’t we go on back to your camp. I could use a cup of coffee.” He tossed a glance toward the late Henry Bingham. “He ain’t going nowhere. I’ll take care of him in the morning.”
Taking Toby’s reins, he walked back to camp with her. When he started rummaging in his saddlebags for some coffee, she stopped him, insisting that she would furnish the coffee beans. “It’s the least I can do,” she said. So he rekindled the fire, then took care of his horse while she ground the beans and fetched water from the creek. Soon coffee was boiling, and he sat across from her while she told him how she happened to be in such a forsaken place with the evil Mr. Bingham.
It was a little over seven years ago when her father had been murdered. Lettie had been just a child of nine when a man who worked with her father had brutally murdered him by crushing his skull with a poker. Jonah Henderson, a senior vice president of the Midland Bank, had provided a handsome living for his family. Lettie and her older brother, Harvey, had adored their father and were devastated by his death. Their mother had never really recovered, seeming to wither away a little more with each year that passed after her husband was sc cruelly taken.
Steadman Finch was the man who had so wantonly struck her father down, killing a man who been a mentor to him—even after the ungrateful Finch was promoted to a vice presidency himself. It had been her father’s misfortune that Steadman Finch’s integrity had failed to match his ambition. Lettie’s mother had told her in later years that her father had begun to suspect some of Finch’s dealings some time before he actually caught him in the act of transferring funds to his personal account. When confronted with the deed, Finch had taken the course that men of low moral values and evil intentions often take. He had struck her father down and run.
“I think the fact that Finch escaped punishment for taking my father from us greatly contributed to my mother’s failing health,” Lettie said. “I don’t believe a day passed that she didn’t dwell upon it. I think she just didn’t care to live anymore. A year ago, she developed pneumonia, and the doctor said it was like she didn’t even try to fight it. In less than a month, she was gone.” Lettie paused a moment to compose herself before continuing.
“Last fall, a friend of the family returned from Montana territory, where he had spent the summer hauling freight from the mining towns. He was certain that he had seen Steadman Finch in a saloon in Virginia City.” Her eyes opened wide with emotion at the thought. “My brother and I decided to go to Virginia City and bring my father’s murderer to justice.”
Jim listened to Lettie’s story without comment. Gazing at the slip of a girl on the opposite side of the fire from him, he marveled at the audacity of the undertaking. “Where is your brother now?”
“I buried him yesterday,” she answered softly, her chin dropping slightly.
“Oh. I’m sorry. Bingham?”
“No,” she quickly replied, shaking her head. “Harvey was ill. I think it was cholera.”
“Damn, excuse me, you’ve had your share of bad luck.” Seeking to change the subject, he asked, “How did you hook up with Bingham?”
“We placed an advertisement in the paper,” she replied, dropping her head again to hide her embarrassment at having to admit to such naivete.
Jim was kind enough to keep his opinion of that to himself. He was sure she had already paid dearly enough for that mistake. “Well,” he remarked, “a lot of things don’t work out the way we plan ’em. I reckon I can escort you back to Fort Kearny in the morning. Can you get back to St. Louis all right from there?”
“I’m sure I can, Mr. Culver, but I hate to delay you any further. I’m sure you were on your way somewhere when you happened upon us.”
“No trouble, miss. I’m heading out Montanaway myself, but it’s already a little late to be starting out. It took me over a month to get this far from Virginia. A day or so longer won’t make much difference. I expect I’ll be able to get to Fort Laramie in a week or ten days, maybe Montana territory, before hard winter hits.”
“Very well, then. Once again, I find myself in your debt.”
Lettie insisted upon fixing a late supper for them even though it would have to be pretty skimpy. It consisted primarily of some side meat and more coffee. What with the activities of the past couple of days, there had been little thought toward planning meals. There were not even any dried beans soaking in the crock. She apologized for her lack of preparation, but Jim assured her that he was not really hungry, anyway.
After their meager supper, Jim helped Lettie recover the strewn items that Bingham had pulled from the wagon during his frantic search for her money. When that was done, she retired to the wagon while Jim rolled out his bedroll by the fire. In spite of her first impression of Jim Culver, she had every intention of staying awake during the night in case her knight had a blacker side that he had kept hidden.
Despite her intentions, she found it difficult to remain awake, dozing off several times through the night only to awaken with a start and peer under the edge of the cotton wagon cover—each time to observe a man peacefully asleep. In the deep hours before daybreak, she unwittingly surrendered to her growing state of exhaustion and settled into a sound sleep. Sunup found her still warm in her blankets, finally stirring to the sound of a frying pan bumping against stones set in the campfire. Remembering where she was, she bolted upright and grabbed the edge of the wagon cover to look out.
At last seeing some sign of life from the wagon, Jim stood up and called out, “Good morning, miss. I hope you don’t mind. I borrowed your skillet. Thought we could use a little bacon and coffee before we get started.”
Embarrassed at having slept so late, she quickly scrambled out of the wagon. “If you’ll give me a minute to freshen myself, I’ll see if I can’t fix something to add to that.” She hurried down to the creek, glancing back at him frequently until she was hidden by the trees that lined the bank.
The morning was chilly, with a light dusting of frost on the willow branches where Lettie performed her toilet. Washing her face and hands in the shallow current, she could not help but shiver. As she dried her face, she thought about her decision to go to Omaha to catch the train. Now that Harvey was no longer with her, it would be easy to lose her resolve and go back to St. Louis. Her uncle was probably right. It was utter foolishness for a girl of sixteen to cross the continent with no more than a boy of eighteen to look after her. He would think it absolutely insane for her to continue if he knew that Harvey was dead. And yet it galled her to her very soul to know that Steadman Finch was roaming free as you please after slaying her father.
She walked back a short way along the creek bank until she had a clear view of the camp again. Shielding herself behind a large cottonwood, she peered around the trunk to study the tall young man who had appeared the night before. His back to her, he busied himself by the fire, seeming to display no interest in her private goings-on. She had made a mistake by accepting Henry Bingham at face value. Was she now making a similar mistake? What did she know about this man? He might be a cold-blooded murderer or highwayman. After all, he had dispatched Bingham handily. If he were going to murder me and take my money, he would most likely have done it last night while I was sleeping so soundly. She knew she had no desire to return to St. Louis. There was nothing there for her now that her family was gone. And she couldn’t bear the thought of going to live with her aunt Mattie. No. She made her decision. I’m going to find Steadman Finch, and I need someone I can depend on to help me. The matter settled in her mind, she walked back to the campfire.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she announced as she approached. “I’m not going back to Fort Kearny. I’m taking my wagon on to Montana as I had planned.”
Jim sat back on his heels and gave her a long appraising look. “That don’t sound like a real good idea,” he said. “There’s a lot of wild country between here and Montana territory—no trip for a young girl to take alone. It might be a whole lot better if you go on up to take the train like you said before.”
“I guess you’re right, but I’m not planning to go alone. I’m going with you.”
“Whoa! Hold on a minute,” Jim uttered in surprise. The determined look in the young lady’s eyes told him that she was deadly serious. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea or not.” Momentarily flustered by the audacity of the young woman, he tried to collect his thoughts. “You can’t go with me,” he blurted.
“Why not?”
“W-well,” he stammered, “you just can’t. I mean, I’m traveling alone. I can’t . . .” He struggled to find reasons, but none leaped to mind. “Why, you’re not much more than a kid. How old are you, anyway?”
“It doesn’t matter how old I am. I’m old enough to drive that team of mules, and I’m going to drive them to Montana with or without you.” She watched him closely, waiting for his reaction. “I’ve got some money. I can pay you to guide me.” She paused, raised an eyebrow, and smiled. “Since you killed my guide . . .”
He shook his head in wonder, finding it difficult to believe he had ridden into such a situation and not really knowing what to tell this precocious girl. “Hell, I don’t want your money. I’m not a guide, anyway. Right where I’m sittin’ is as far west as I’ve ever been. I’m not even sure where I’m heading. I’m just heading west.”
“You mentioned that you hoped to make Fort Laramie in a week or so. Do you know how to find Fort Laramie?”
“Well, yeah. Any fool can find Fort Laramie. I ain’t worried about getting there. I just don’t know where I’m going after I get there. I was aiming to look for my brother Clay. He’s out in the territory somewhere. But it’s an awful big territory. I don’t know if I’ll ever find him.”
“All right, then,” she replied with dogged determination. “You can take me as far as Fort Laramie, and I’ll make other arrangements there.”
Lost for an answer, and not really sure why he was against the proposition, he remained silent while Lettie gazed impatiently into his eyes. He returned her gaze for a few moments before having to avert his eyes to escape the girl’s penetrating stare. Having made up her mind, she was not to be put off. “I could not help but notice that you seem to be traveling extremely light to be contemplating a trip of such length,” she said.
He shrugged indifferently. “I don’t need much. I can hunt for my food.”
“What about your horse?” Lettie insisted. “I notice that he is looking a bit poorly. So much of the grass has been fairly well grazed off.”
Again, he shrugged. “Toby’s pretty tough. He’ll manage.”
She continued. “I’ve got an ample supply of grain in my wagon, enough for my animals and your horse. I’ve also got two hundred pounds of flour, almost one hundred and fifty pounds of bacon, and a twenty-five-pound bag of coffee, sugar, salt, and a great many other things one needs to cross the continent.” She paused to see if he appreciated the significance of her words. “It would seem that I’m better equipped to undertake the journey than you are, Mr. Culver. It would make sense to join forces.”
He shook his head, defeated. “It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” Convinced that she was probably truthful when she threatened to go it alone if he declined, he relented. He decided someone as precocious and stubborn as Lettie Henderson shouldn’t be allowed to wander off across the prairie by herself. The next fellow she bumped into might be another Henry Bingham—or a hostile Indian. And she did have all those provisions. He scratched his head, hesitating to close the deal. Then, extending his hand, he said, “All right, you’ve got a partner.”
Beaming with delight, she eagerly took his hand. “Good,” she pronounced. “Let’s get started to Fort Laramie.”
“Let me go take care of Mr. Bingham first. I don’t wanna take a chance on poisoning the buzzards.”
Not waiting for—or asking for—his help, Lettie immediately went about hitching her team while Jim saddled Toby and rode back across the stream. When he arrived at the site of the prior night’s fatal confrontation, there was already a ring of buzzards circling high overhead. Holding a pick he had taken from Lettie’s wagon, he dismounted and stood looking at the stiffened corpse gazing wide-eyed up at him. It registered with him that he was looking at the second man he had killed. It was not something that overly disturbed him. Each man had made the first move. And as far as he could judge, each man had left the world a better place without him. After relieving Bingham of his gun belt and a pocketknife, he looked at the hard-baked prairie upon which the late Henry Bingham lay. To test the ground, he took a half-hearted swing with his pick. It penetrated no more than three inches before meeting solid resistance. He glanced back up in the sky to watch the buzzards circling. “Buzzards gotta eat, too,” he said. He picked up the pick and climbed back on Toby. Turning his horse toward camp, he tossed back over his shoulder, “Clean up after you finish, boys.”