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"In the Pines"

A week out of Yuma, somewhere between the cactus and the sage, they found a small Apache boy of 13 or 14 years of age. Though the wolf was young, he was still a threat. Or so Kit's father had said. Still, Kit, Martin and Jed plead with Bill to let the pup go. But Bill wasn't hearing it. And once that old bison Ezra spoke up, taking sides with the bull, the discussion was over. They couldn't let the boy go; "...his village will raise a warparty," the buffalo had said. That was that. A minute and a bullet later, the pup was dead, a slug through his skull from Bill's Colt .45. He and Ezra dumped the body in a shallow arroyo, leaving him to coyotes and vultures.

Kit wasn't happy with his father; he knew the old bull had his reasons, not the least of which was protecting him - his boy, his calf - from the dangers of a harsh and brutal world. The cruel finality of that act, however, weighed heavily on the young bull's conscience. Ezra had been right. The pup would have told. But did he have to die? Couldn't they have tied him up and left him to be found? Kit didn't know and it didn't matter. What was done was done and there was no changing it.

Three days later and sixty miles east, the Superstition Mountains hung on the horizon like purple, bruised clouds. The day had been dry and hot and the wind blew hard from the west. It was Martin who saw it first, the mustang hooting and hollering for Bill and Ezra from his perch atop a craggy ridge. The bull and buffalo joined him, crouching next to where the horse sat. Holding his dusty hat to his head with his left hand, he pointed with his right. "There."

Some ten miles out, perhaps fifteen, there was a dark cloud of dust rising from the southwest and moving fast. Bill and Ezra exchanged knowing glances.

"They found the boy," the old bison gruffed.

"Yup," Bill replied.

"They're tracking us and they move faster than we do on open ground," Ezra said.

The bull nodded and patted Martin on the back. "We best get moving."

The three of them scurried down the ridge's steep bluff to their horses waiting below. "Jed!" Bill hollered as he planted a hoof into his mount's stirrup and kicked up onto his horse. The puma, sitting in the shade of rocky overhang a distance away, looked up. He was oiling his irons. "Go get Kit. Bring him here. We leave in five." Holstering his revolvers, the cat nodded. He hopped onto his horse and spurred it to a gallop, racing to fetch the young bull.

For the rest of that afternoon, they rode, pushing their horses to the brink of exhaustion. It made no difference; the wolves were gaining. It was Jed's horse that gave out first, its ankle breaking with a snap as it tumbled to the ground in a flailing frenzy of dirt, sweat and foam. Jed, dusting off from his fall, squatted next to it, helpless. Martin joined him, followed by the rest. The mustang petted its head, nickering soothingly at his feral cousin.

"So?" Bill asked finally.

Martin shook his head. When the bull pulled his gun, Martin stood, looking him in the eye as he pushed Bill's gun away. "No," the young mustang whickered. "He's one of mine and I take care of my own. You've already done enough. Now leave." As Bill walked away, a single shot rang out, echoing under the early evening sky.

The death of Jed's horse was trouble. They could double-up, but whoever carried Jed would fall behind. They considered using it as a rouse, but the Apache were peerless trackers and would certainly see through it. No, they needed to hunker down in a defensible position, Bill insisted. They hid the four remaining horses in a nearby grotto and set up camp on a high, rocky hill with steep sides and a view of the west. Jed took first watch while Bill and Ezra, Kit and Martin waited. From near their small, hidden fire, the bull watched his son and Martin as they sat a distance away, in the flickering dark, talking quietly to one another. "They're just boys," he gruffed.

The old bison snorted with a shake of his head. "They're young men, Bill. Kit's a young man. He's sixteen. You can't protect him forever."

Bill drew a hit from his canteen and wiped his muzzle with the back of his hand. "No, I can't. Not forever. But God as my witness I'd go to the gates of Hell to keep my boy safe."

The buffalo patted the bull on the shoulder. "This ain't your fault, you know. You did right by that Apache boy. If you'd let him go, we'd likely be dead by now." Bill spit. "Yeah, I did right. It's still gonna get my boy killed."

The moon was low in the east when a wailing howl split the night. Jed raced into their small camp, paws kicking up dust as Bill and Ezra quickly snuffed out their fire. "There's a crag to the southwest. They're coming up!" he huffed as Kit and Martin joined him.

The old bull nodded. "Ezra, take the Winchester and climb as high can. I want you lookin' down into that crag." He looked at the cat. "Take Martin and cover the mouth. Shoot anything that moves. I'll flank a little ways down the side." He turned to his son, shoving a Colt into his hand. "Stay here. Anything happens to us, you get the hell out of here. You know where the horses are. You get to them and you ride hard to Phoenix."

"Pa?" the young bull questioned, eyes flicking to Martin, pleading, the revolver shaking in his hand.

Bill grabbed his son by the shoulders and shook him. "You hear me boy? You don't stop until Phoenix. You ride. You leave me and you ride. You leave us all and you ride." Bill's calf nodded, eyes wide and glassy. And with that, Bill gruffed "C'mon" as he disappeared into the night, the bison and puma in tow. Kit watched as Martin, frowning, shot him a long glance before turning to follow the others.

They hid behind rock and scrub, above and below, waiting for the wolves. Bill knew that when the wolves attacked, it would be at close quarters and all at once. "Like a pack," the old bull said to himself. It had been quiet and an hour had passed since they heard the last howl. Maybe they'd moved on, but Bill didn't think so. The Apache didn't work like that.

A crack. The bull turned. Nothing. As he started to relax, a loud howl. Loud piercing screams. A hatchet buried itself into his left shoulder, in the back, just as a clawed hand grabbed him under the chin and jerked his head back viciously. Bill bucked hard, driving backwards. Toppled over against the body behind him. His head clipped a rock. Vison wavering, he stared up. The wolf looked like a ghost. Lips curled, he snarled. The shine of his eyes was red in the near dark. The wound in Bill's back screaming as it grinded against the dirt, the wolf collapsed on him, knife drawn and aimed for his throat. He cried out as gunfire exploded around him.

Jed and Martin held their ground. The Apache were unable to climb the few final feet of the steep crag without taking lead from either of them or from Ezra above. Hearing Bill yell, the mustang and puma looked at one another. Martin nodded, stood and raced for the bull. The old bison picked off a wolf as he leapt for the horse.

The wolf bit at Bill's throat as they struggled over the knife. Frantically, the bull grabbed his revolver. The Apache slapped it away. The knife inched closer, tip cutting into the soft flesh beneath Bill's chin. With both hands gripping the wolf's arm, he tried to push him to the side. It did no good as the knife pressed further into his neck. The old bull bucked; the wolf held fast. Gurgling on spit, the last bit of strength fading from his body, Bill closed his eyes and saw Kit. A shot. There was a sickening spray of flesh, bone and blood as the weight on his chest fell away. Bill scrambled backwards, pawing at his throat. There was blood, but the knife hadn't cut deep. Wordlessly, Martin grabbed the old, shocked bull under his good arm, hefted him to his hooves and dragged him to high ground. The echo of gunfire ended as suddenly as it had started, the last shot ringing from Ezra's rifle.

Dropping Bill onto his right side, Martin kneeled behind him, hand on the hatchet's haft. "Don't!" Ezra yelled before the mustang could pull it out. "He'll bleed out if you do." The buffalo pushed Martin aside.

"He gonna be okay?" Martin asked. Bill groaned, wincing as the pain started to catch up with him.

"It's deep, but it's in the muscle," Ezra replied, examining. "Get Kit. Bring alcohol, water and rags." Martin turned, only to run into Jed. The puma caught him by the shoulders, held him a moment, then let him pass. He peered at the bison and bull. "Bad?"

Ezra shrugged and said, "It's not good, but it could be much worse." He looked up at the big cat. "The wolves?" It was Jed's turn to shrug. "Gone for now. The bison nodded.

"Pa! Pa!" Kit yelled, running, his cleft hooves scattering rocks with each step, his thick tail trailing behind him. Martin trotted in tow. He had whiskey, a couple of rags and a tin of water. Kit collapsed to his knees next to his father as the horse handed the items to the buffalo.

The old bull smiled up at him, fighting through the pain. "I'll be fine," he said reassuringly.

It did Kit no good. "Ezra?" the young bull asked the bison.

"C'mon, get back..." the old buffalo said, nudging him away. Once he had space, he held the liquor to Bill's lips. "Drink. You're goin' to need it." Tipping the bottle, he poured a third of the liquor into the bull's muzzle. Bill swallowed, grunting and chuffing. They waited. When Bill was drunk, Ezra doused the rags with the water and wrapped his thick fingers around the hatchet's handle. "This is going to hurt." Bill just grunted. His head rested in Kit's lap, eyes unfocused. The buffalo yanked up and out. The bull screamed in agony, muzzle pressed against his son's leg. Ezra doused the wound with whiskey and Bill screamed again, writhing. Pressing wet cloth against the bull's back, he took Kit's hands and forcibly placed them over the rags, pushing down. "Keep pressure on the wound."

The young bull nodded, eyes wide with shock. Martin squatted next to him. "He'll be okay, hoss," the mustang nickered quietly with a squeeze of Kit's shoulder. Kit smiled, nodded and looked back at his father. Bill had passed out from the pain.

For the next three days, they hunkered in their camp. Kit and Ezra nursed Bill while Martin and Jed watched for more wolves. By the second evening, Bill was awake and by the third, he was up and about, his left arm in a makeshift sling.

The flames of the campfire licked into the night. Embers sparked and popped. It was late and Bill was with Ezra while Jed, Kit and Martin had gone to fetch water from a pond in a grove of pines on the other side of the hill. "We break camp in the morning?" Ezra asked.

"Yup," Bill replied. The old bison nodded. The bull noticed the bedrolls. They were still tied up. "What time is it?"

Ezra pulled out his pocket watch. "11 o'clock."

Bill snorted. "They were gone this time last night, too."

"Yup," the buffalo chuffed.

"Where are they?"

"Getting water, I s'pose," Ezra said with a shrug as he tucked the watch back into his pocket.

"I don't like it," Bill replied, taking to his hooves. He dusted off with his good hand before touching the grip of the Colt in his holster.

"Bill?"

"Something's wrong."

"Apache?" Ezra asked.

"I don't know," the old bull replied. "I just know something's wrong..."

Carefully, they approached the grove. There hadn't been sign of the wolves for days, but that didn't mean they weren't there, watching and waiting. It didn't mean they hadn't scalped his son. The copse of pine was sheltered in a small, shallow canyon and its small pond was fed by a tiny stream. The yellow-orange light of a campfire flickered behind the trees.

"Wolves?" Bill asked.

Ezra squinted, studying. "Don't think so. I don't smell 'em, but I smell something. Stay here. Let me go see. You don't need to go opening your shoulder up again." The bull nodded.

Ezra crept to the edge of the pines, rifle at the ready. When he saw what he saw, the Winchester dropped. The gun shook in his hands. He knew he'd smelled it. In Yuma. On the plains. Last night. The old bull came up behind him. Holding the rifle in his left hand, he tried to hold Bill back with his right. "Bill..."

Bill shoved him away as he whispered, "My God in Heaven," to himself. The bull's walk became a run. He drew his revolver. Flipped it around in his hand. "Get the fuck off him!" Bill roared. Martin, mounted and rutting into the old bull's son, turned just in time to see the butt of the revolver crash against the side of his head. Marin went sprawling onto his back, his erect penis wagging up from between his legs. Kit flipped over, horror in his eyes as he stared up at his father. "Pa! I...I can--

"You do this to me? To your mother in God rest her soul?!" Bill yelled. "You...and him," the bull raged with utter disgust. "How do you expect me to ever--

Bill noticed Martin starting to get up. The Colt landed against the side of the horse's head with another sick, wet crack. Martin collapsed.

"Bill, stop!" Ezra yelled, grabbing Bill from behind.

Bill tore himself away, raising his gun and pointing at the buffalo. "Did you know about this? Did you?" Poison tainted the old bull's voice.

"No. No. But you need to--

"Don't you fucking tell me what I need to do!"

"So this is what it comes down to?" Ezra asked.

Bill nodded. "This is what it comes down to, Ezra."

Kit had crawled to Martin and was holding him in his arms, stroking his bloody head. "Pa... Stop...Please...He needs help..." Tears streamed from the young bull's eyes.

"I loved you, Kit. More than anything," the old bull said as he walked to where his son sat crying. Planting a big hoof against his Kit's chest, he pushed him away from the horse.

"Pa!! Don't! Please don't!"

But the butt of the revolver fell again and again and again against the side of Martin's head. Kit screamed in pure agony and scrambled for his lover only to be kicked away yet again. With a final blow, Martin's skull cracked. The bull looked at his son coolly. "Now he doesn't need help."

"I hate you!" the young bull wailed. "I hate you! He saved your life and you fucking killed him! I fucking hate you!"

Ezra's hand touched Bill's shoulder. He shrugged it off. "Don't touch me."

"Bill..."

"Bill? Ezra?"

The bull and bison turned together. It was Jed. When he saw Martin bloody at Bill's feet, the tin pail dropped from his hand, spilling its water onto the ground. His gaze flicked from the dead horse to the bull and the bison with the rifle. The cougar's hands hovered at his hips, near his revolvers. "What's going on?" he asked cautiously.

Ezra raised the rifle at the cat. "Nothing that concerns you, Jed. Get your hands away from the iron and go back to camp. We're leaving in the morning."

The cat glanced at Martin. The horse wasn't breathing. "He dead?"

"I said this doesn't concern you," the buffalo repeated.

"He was my friend and if either of you are responsible, then I beg to differ."

Bill cocked the hammer of his revolver with his thumb. "You really want to draw us down, son?"

The big cat said nothing.

" You might be fast, but you ain't that fast..."

"Wanna find out?" Jed lilted.

It was a sudden flurry of movement. In the ink of an eye, both Jed's revolvers were in his hands, hammers panned and cocked with his thumbs. He fired as Bill swung his Colt up. The shot slammed the bull in the gut, doubling him over. Ezra fired and Jed pulled the other trigger. The round tore apart the old bison's throat. Ezra stumbled, clawing at the wound as he toppled to the ground. He twitched as blood pooled beneath him.

"Fuck," Jed said. Kit didn't hear him. Crawling to his father, he shoved him onto his back. The old bull blinked up at him, his calf. His lips moved wordlessly as Kit picked up the Colt and cocked the hammer. Bill's eyes went wide as his son pointed it at his head. "Please... Don't..." the old bull tried to plead. Kit pulled the trigger.

The big cat walked up behind the young bull, holstering his revolvers. "Kit." The bull didn't respond. "Kit, we need to go."

Kit nodded. He stumbled to where Martin lay. Looked at Jed. "Can we bury him?"

"We don't have a shovel," Jed replied.

Together, the bull and cat did the best they could to cover Martin's body with rocks and pine. Neither looked back as they walked away, leaving Bill and Ezra to the coyotes and vultures.