Trail Of Vengeance

A PULP WESTERN
By Clement Elmore

Chapter One

The spring sun beat down mercilessly on the dusty streets of Westport, Missouri, where the civilized world ended and the great unknown began. Ox-drawn wagons creaked and groaned as they rolled through the settlement's main thoroughfare, loaded high with the dreams and desperation of families heading west. The air hung thick with the smell of leather, sweat, and gunpowder—the perfume of the frontier.

Alex Rivers sat motionless atop his steel-gray stallion at the edge of town, his weathered hands resting on the saddle horn as his piercing blue eyes surveyed the chaos below. At twenty-eight, he had the lean, hard look of a man who had seen too much and trusted too little. His buckskin jacket was stained with trail dust and marked by the scars of a dozen wilderness encounters, while the Colt .45 at his hip bore the smooth polish of constant use.

But today, those keen eyes weren't watching for Indians or wild game. They were hunting for killers.

Three months had passed since old Pete Morrison's body had been found alongside the Platte River, stripped of his winter's worth of prime beaver pelts and left to feed the vultures. Pete had been more than just Alex's trapping partner—he'd been the closest thing to a father the orphaned young man had ever known. The grizzled mountain man had taught him to read sign, to live off the land, and most importantly, to never let a wrong go unpunished.

"Justice don't always come from a courtroom, boy," Pete had often said around their campfires. "Out here, a man's word and his gun are all the law there is."

Now Pete was dead, and Alex had ridden six hundred miles from the Rockies to this jumping-off point of civilization, following rumors and whispered names. The trail had led him here, to Westport, where wagon trains formed up for the great trek to Oregon Territory. And if his information was correct, the men who had murdered Pete Morrison were somewhere in this sea of canvas tops and creaking wheels.

Alex touched his heels to his horse's flanks and rode slowly down the main street, his gaze moving systematically from face to face. Past Mueller's Trading Post, where emigrants haggled over supplies they'd need for the two-thousand-mile journey ahead. Past the Silver Dollar Saloon, where teamsters and scouts gathered to swap lies and drink rotgut whiskey. Past the wagon yards where families made their final preparations for a journey that would either deliver them to the promised land or claim their lives somewhere on the endless prairie.

It was outside Jameson's Outfitters that Alex first spotted trouble brewing.

A crowd had gathered around two men engaged in a heated argument. One was a tall, broad-shouldered man with flame-red hair and a beard to match, dressed in a fine wool coat despite the heat. The other was smaller and dark-complexioned, with the lean build of a vaquero and a scar running from his left ear to the corner of his mouth.

Alex's blood turned to ice in his veins. Red Tyrone and Sanchez—exactly as Pete's killer had been described by the half-breed tracker who'd witnessed the murder from a distant ridge.

"I'm telling you, Jameson, these people can't make it to Oregon without experienced leadership!" The red-haired man's voice boomed across the crowd. "I've guided a dozen trains across the continent. Ask anyone from here to California—Red Tyrone gets his people through!"

"And I'm telling you, Mr. Tyrone, that Captain Richards has already been hired to scout for the Morrison Pioneer Company," replied a nervous-looking merchant in a stained apron. "The contract was signed yesterday."

"Richards?" Tyrone spat in the dust. "That broken-down old cavalry reject couldn't find his way to the privy without a compass and three guides. These families are putting their lives in the hands of a fool."

Alex dismounted and ground-tied his horse, pushing through the crowd until he stood close enough to study the two men who had haunted his dreams for three long months. Tyrone was even more imposing up close—well over six feet tall, with the thick arms and barrel chest of a man accustomed to handling oxen and putting down trouble with his fists. His pale green eyes held the cold calculation of a predator.

Sanchez stood slightly behind his partner, saying nothing but missing nothing. His dark eyes darted constantly through the crowd, and Alex noticed the way his right hand never strayed far from the pearl-handled Colt at his side. This was a man who had killed before and would kill again without hesitation.

"Perhaps," Tyrone continued, his voice taking on a more reasonable tone, "we could work out some sort of arrangement. My bull train needs to reach the Oregon Territory as well. We could travel together, share the burden of defense and navigation."

Jameson shook his head firmly. "The Morrison Company has made their decision, Mr. Tyrone. You'll have to form your own train or join another."

Tyrone's face darkened, and for a moment Alex thought the big man might strike the merchant. Instead, he smiled—a cold, predatory expression that never reached his eyes.

"Very well," he said quietly. "But when Captain Richards leads those poor souls into disaster, don't say Red Tyrone didn't warn you."

The crowd began to disperse, but Alex remained where he was, studying every detail of the two killers. Pete Morrison had been found with his skull crushed by a rifle butt and three bullet holes in his back. These were the men responsible, he was certain of it.

His hand moved instinctively toward his gun, but common sense held him back. This was a civilized town, with a sheriff and law courts. Drawing iron here would make him a wanted man before he ever got the chance to see justice done. Better to wait, to find the right time and place where frontier law could be properly applied.

"Excuse me, friend."

Alex turned to find a distinguished-looking man in his fifties approaching. The stranger wore a black wool suit despite the heat, and his silver hair was neatly combed beneath a fine felt hat. Everything about him spoke of education and prosperity.

"I couldn't help but notice you were watching our little drama there," the man continued. "Might I ask if you're looking for employment? The name's Samuel Morrison, and I'm in desperate need of a scout."

Morrison. The name hit Alex like a physical blow. Pete Morrison had often spoken of a nephew back East—a successful lawyer who'd never shown any interest in the wilderness until now.

"You wouldn't be related to Pete Morrison, by any chance?" Alex asked carefully.

Samuel Morrison's face brightened. "Why yes! Pete was my uncle. Did you know him? I've been trying to track down anyone who might have information about what happened to him. The authorities in Independence were singularly unhelpful."

Alex felt the weight of destiny settling on his shoulders. "Mr. Morrison, my name is Alex Rivers. I was your uncle's partner for the better part of five years."

"Rivers!" Morrison grasped Alex's hand eagerly. "Uncle Pete wrote about you in his letters. He said you were the finest scout and hunter west of the Mississippi. This is providence indeed—I was just telling my wife that we needed to find someone with your qualifications."

"I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Morrison, but I'm not in the scouting business anymore."

"Please, hear me out." Morrison's voice took on the persuasive tone of a skilled attorney. "I've organized a company of sixty families—honest, hard-working people seeking a new life in Oregon Territory. We have good wagons, plenty of supplies, and the determination to see this through. What we lack is someone with the knowledge to get us there safely."

Alex glanced back toward the Silver Dollar Saloon, where Tyrone and Sanchez had disappeared. "What about this Captain Richards I heard mentioned?"

Morrison's expression soured. "Richards was dismissed this morning. We discovered he'd been drinking heavily and exaggerating his qualifications. The man's never been west of Kansas, despite his claims. We're leaving in three days, Mr. Rivers, and without a proper guide, sixty families will be heading into the wilderness blind."

The irony wasn't lost on Alex. Pete Morrison's own nephew needed help, while Pete's killers were preparing to head west on the same trail where they'd committed their crime. It seemed like the hand of providence was pointing him toward his destiny.

"I understand you're not interested," Morrison continued, "but would you at least consider meeting with some of our people? Many of them have children, Mr. Rivers. They're counting on reaching Oregon before winter sets in."

Alex studied the older man's face, seeing genuine concern and desperation there. These weren't the wealthy adventurers or get-rich-quick schemers who often headed west. These were families risking everything for a chance at a better life.

"What kind of payment are we talking about?" Alex asked, more to buy time than from any real interest in money.

"Five hundred dollars, plus provisions for the journey. And," Morrison added with a knowing look, "if you're concerned about justice for my uncle, I should mention that I've posted a thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the capture of his killers."

A thousand dollars was more money than most men saw in five years, but Alex wasn't motivated by gold. He was thinking about Red Tyrone's parting words—his prediction that Captain Richards would lead people to disaster. What if Tyrone was planning to ensure that disaster occurred? What if the killer intended to rob another wagon train along the trail?

"Mr. Morrison," Alex said slowly, "would you happen to know anything about this Red Tyrone fellow who was arguing with Jameson?"

Morrison's face darkened. "Unfortunately, yes. He and his partner approached me yesterday about scouting for our company. There was something about them I didn't trust—the way they looked at our women and assessed our wagons like a wolf counting sheep. I declined their services, which seemed to anger them considerably."

"And now they're forming their own train?"

"So I understand. A bull train, carrying freight to the Oregon settlements. They've hired on with several merchants who need goods transported west."

Alex made his decision. If Tyrone and Sanchez were heading west anyway, this was his chance to keep watch on them while they traveled the same route where they'd murdered Pete. Justice could be served at the end of the trail, far from civilization's restraining hand.

"Mr. Morrison," he said, extending his hand, "you've got yourself a scout."

Relief flooded the older man's features. "Excellent! You won't regret this decision, Mr. Rivers. Our people are good, decent folks who'll follow your lead without question."

"I'll need to examine your wagons and supplies," Alex said. "And I'll want to meet with the heads of families to explain what we're facing out there. This isn't going to be a pleasure excursion—people are going to die before we reach Oregon, and everyone needs to understand that."

"Of course. I'll arrange a meeting for this evening. The families are camped about a mile west of town, near Willow Creek."

As Morrison hurried away to spread the news, Alex remained on the dusty street, his mind already working through the challenges ahead. Leading sixty families across two thousand miles of wilderness would be difficult enough under the best circumstances. Doing it while staying alert for treachery from Tyrone and his men would require every skill Pete Morrison had taught him.

The sun was beginning to set, painting the western sky the color of blood. In three days, the Morrison Pioneer Company would roll out of Westport and onto the Oregon Trail. And somewhere along that long, dangerous road, Alex Rivers would finally have his chance to settle accounts with the men who had murdered the only father he'd ever known.

He walked into the Silver Dollar Saloon, pushing through the batwing doors into a haze of tobacco smoke and whiskey fumes. Tyrone and Sanchez sat at a corner table, deep in conversation with two other hard-looking men Alex didn't recognize. The big redhead's voice carried across the room despite his obvious attempt at secrecy.

"...be at least twenty wagons in that train, loaded with everything they own," Tyrone was saying. "Families like that always carry gold and jewelry sewn into their clothes. Could be worth ten thousand dollars or more."

"When do we make our move?" asked one of the strangers, a thin man with dead eyes and tobacco-stained teeth.

"Patience, Crawford," Tyrone replied. "Let them get a few hundred miles out, where there's no law and no help coming. The Platte River crossing would be perfect—lots of confusion, easy to make it look like an accident."

Alex had heard enough. He turned and walked back outside, his jaw set in grim determination. Tyrone wasn't just planning to travel the Oregon Trail—he was planning to rob and murder the Morrison Pioneer Company, just as he'd robbed and murdered Pete.

But this time, Alex Rivers would be ready for him.

The evening meeting went better than Alex had expected. The Morrison families were indeed decent, hard-working people—farmers from Missouri and Illinois, a few shopkeepers and craftsmen seeking opportunity in the Oregon Territory, several young couples with more courage than common sense. They listened respectfully as Alex explained the dangers they would face: river crossings that claimed lives regularly, sudden storms that could scatter a wagon train across fifty miles of prairie, disease that could kill faster than bullets, and yes, Indians who might see their passage as an invasion.

"I won't lie to you," Alex told the gathered families as they sat around their campfires. "Some of you won't make it to Oregon. The trail will test every one of us in ways we can't imagine. But if you follow my instructions exactly, if you work together and watch out for each other, most of you will see the promised land."

An elderly farmer named Josiah Parker raised his hand. "What about this Tyrone fellow? We heard he was making threats about our company."

Alex chose his words carefully. "Red Tyrone is traveling the same route with a bull train. As long as we keep our distance and mind our own business, he shouldn't be a problem."

It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. Alex couldn't tell these families that their scout was planning to use them as bait for a killer, or that their journey would likely end in a confrontation that would determine whether justice or evil prevailed on the Oregon Trail.

As the families dispersed to their wagons for the night, Samuel Morrison approached Alex with a cup of coffee and a troubled expression.

"There's something else you should know," Morrison said quietly. "My daughter Lisa is traveling with us. She's twenty-two, unmarried, and..." He paused, searching for the right words. "She has a tendency to be attracted to the wrong sort of men. If this Tyrone fellow or any of his associates try to approach her, I'd appreciate it if you'd intervene."

Alex nodded. "I'll keep an eye on her, Mr. Morrison. You have my word."

Later that night, as Alex lay in his bedroll beneath the stars, he thought about the promise he'd made to Pete Morrison's memory. The old mountain man had always believed that a man's word was his bond, that justice was worth any risk, and that the wilderness separated the wheat from the chaff in humanity.

Tomorrow, the Morrison Pioneer Company would begin its long journey west. Somewhere ahead lay the promised land of Oregon Territory, with its fertile valleys and endless opportunities. But between here and there lay two thousand miles of the most dangerous country on earth, patrolled by men like Red Tyrone who saw honest families as nothing more than prey.

Alex Rivers had tracked killers before, but never while responsible for sixty families who trusted him with their lives. It would be the greatest challenge of his life—and quite possibly the last.

The dawn was still three hours away when he finally closed his eyes, the weight of destiny heavy on his shoulders and the ghost of Pete Morrison whispering in the prairie wind.

Justice was coming to the Oregon Trail, one way or another.

Chapter 2

The sun beat down mercilessly on the sprawling wagon train as it carved its way across the endless Missouri plains. Alex Rivers rode point, his keen eyes scanning the horizon for signs of trouble while sweat darkened the back of his buckskin shirt. Behind him stretched a procession of canvas-topped prairie schooners—forty-three wagons carrying the hopes and dreams of families bound for the Oregon Territory.

The journey had begun three days ago from Westport, but already the harsh realities of the trail were making themselves known. Dust clouds rose from the churning wheels and trampling hooves, coating everything in a fine layer of grit that found its way into eyes, mouths, and every fold of clothing. The rhythmic creaking of wood and leather provided a constant accompaniment to the lowing of oxen and the occasional shout of a teamster urging his animals forward.

Alex's attention was drawn to a rider approaching from the rear of the train. He recognized the lean figure of Billy Cobb, the smooth-talking gambler who had attached himself to their expedition at the last moment. Something about the man set Alex's teeth on edge—perhaps it was the way Cobb's eyes lingered too long on Lisa Horner Ruth whenever she passed, or the suspiciously fine cut of his clothes for a man supposedly heading west to make his fortune.

'Rivers!' Cobb called out as he drew alongside. 'Mighty fine country out here, wouldn't you say?' His voice carried the cultured tones of an educated man, but there was something underneath—a hint of mockery that made Alex's jaw tighten.

'It's country that'll kill a man who doesn't respect it,' Alex replied curtly, not taking his eyes off the trail ahead. 'You'd best get back to your wagon, Cobb. We've got rough terrain coming up.'

Cobb chuckled, a sound like silver coins clinking together. 'Always so serious, our scout. I was hoping to ride alongside Miss Ruth's wagon for a spell—offer my protection, you understand.'

The words hit Alex like a slap. He turned in his saddle, fixing Cobb with a steely glare. 'Miss Ruth has all the protection she needs. I suggest you worry about yourself—and stay clear of Red Tyrone's bull train. I saw dust on the southern horizon this morning.'

For just an instant, something flickered in Cobb's eyes—a flash of knowledge quickly concealed. 'Tyrone, you say? I'll be sure to keep my distance.' He tipped his hat mockingly and spurred his horse back toward the wagon train.

Alex watched him go, unease settling in his gut like a cold stone. Every instinct honed by years on the frontier told him that Billy Cobb was more than he appeared. The gambler's reaction to Tyrone's name had been too calculated, too knowing. Alex made a mental note to keep a closer eye on the man.

The terrain began to change as the day wore on. The rolling grasslands gave way to broken country—rocky outcroppings and deep ravines that forced the train to wind back and forth like a massive serpent. Progress slowed to a crawl as wagons had to be carefully maneuvered around obstacles and through narrow passes.

It was near midday when Alex called the first major halt. Ahead lay a precipitous drop into a canyon, its walls falling away for nearly a hundred feet before reaching the boulder-strewn floor below. A narrow, treacherous path zigzagged down the face of the cliff—the only way forward.

'Sweet Jesus,' breathed Thomas Ruth, Lisa's father, as he peered over the edge. 'How in tarnation are we supposed to get forty-three wagons down that?'

'One at a time,' Alex replied grimly. 'And with a lot of rope.' He had seen this done before, but never with a train this size. 'We'll have to lower each wagon by hand. Unhitch the oxen first and drive them down separately. It'll take the rest of the day, maybe longer.'

The work was backbreaking. Thick hemp ropes were secured around each wagon's axles and frame, then fed through pulleys anchored to the sturdiest trees and rock formations along the cliff edge. Teams of men—sometimes a dozen or more—gripped the ropes and slowly, carefully, lowered each prairie schooner down the treacherous path.

Twice they nearly lost wagons when ropes began to fray. The third time, disaster struck. The Bradshaw family's wagon, loaded with furniture and farm tools, began to swing wildly as it descended. One of the support ropes snapped with a sound like a rifle shot.

'Hold fast!' Alex roared, throwing his own weight against the remaining line. The rope burned through his leather gloves, searing his palms, but he held on. Around him, other men added their strength, faces red with exertion. Slowly, agonizingly, they brought the wayward wagon under control and settled it safely on the canyon floor.

It was then that Alex noticed Lisa Ruth approaching with a water gourd and strips of clean cloth. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple bun, but wisps had escaped to frame her face. Despite the day's trials, her blue eyes held a warmth that made something stir in Alex's chest.

'Let me tend those hands,' she said softly, taking his burned palms in her own gentle fingers. Her touch was cool and soothing as she cleaned the wounds and bound them with practiced skill. 'You saved the Bradshaws' wagon—probably saved their lives too.'

'Just doing my job, Miss Ruth,' Alex replied, though he made no move to pull his hands away. This close, he could smell the faint scent of lavender in her hair and see the small scar on her chin from some childhood mishap.

'Lisa,' she corrected with a smile that made the hardships of the day seem distant. 'I think after what we've been through together, we can dispense with such formality.'

Before Alex could respond, Billy Cobb materialized beside them like a shadow. 'Miss Ruth! I've been looking everywhere for you. I was so worried when I heard about the accident.' His eyes took in her hands still holding Alex's, and his smile tightened almost imperceptibly. 'I see our scout is well taken care of.'

Lisa stepped back, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. 'Mr. Cobb. I was just tending to Mr. Rivers' injuries.'

'How fortunate for him,' Cobb said smoothly. 'Perhaps you'd allow me to escort you back to your wagon? The sun is setting, and it wouldn't do to have such a lovely lady wandering about alone.'

Alex felt his jaw clench at the gambler's presumption. 'Miss Ruth can look after herself, Cobb. Besides, we've got more wagons to bring down before dark.'

'Of course,' Cobb replied, his tone remaining pleasant even as his eyes hardened. 'Duty calls, as always. But surely even the most dedicated scout needs time to rest?' He offered Lisa his arm with an elaborate bow. 'Miss Ruth?'

Lisa hesitated, glancing between the two men. The tension between them was almost palpable, crackling like electricity before a storm. Finally, she nodded reluctantly. 'Thank you, Mr. Cobb. Father will be wondering where I am.'

As they walked away, Alex heard Cobb's honeyed voice: 'Such a brave man, our Mr. Rivers. Though I do worry that his... intensity... might make him reckless. A quality that could prove dangerous for all of us.'

Alex's hands clenched into fists, making the rope burns throb. There was something in Cobb's tone—a subtle poison meant to plant seeds of doubt. The gambler was playing a longer game than simple courtship, Alex was certain of it.

The rest of the wagons were lowered without incident, but darkness had fallen by the time the last one touched the canyon floor. Campfires bloomed like scattered stars among the circle of wagons, and the smell of bacon and coffee drifted on the evening air. Families gathered around their fires, sharing the day's trials and looking ahead to tomorrow's challenges.

Alex made his rounds, checking on the livestock and ensuring the guards were posted. As he passed the Ruth family's wagon, he heard voices—Lisa's musical laugh mixing with Cobb's deeper tones. Through the canvas cover, he could see their silhouettes by the firelight, sitting closer together than propriety might dictate.

'...quite the romantic, Mr. Cobb,' Lisa was saying. 'Such tales of adventure you tell!'

'Please, call me Billy. And I assure you, every word is true. The Mississippi gambling boats, the duels at dawn, the fortunes won and lost on the turn of a card—it's all part of life when you're willing to take risks.'

Alex's jaw tightened. The man was spinning tales like a spider weaving a web, and Lisa seemed caught in his charm. Alex forced himself to move on, but the image of them together burned in his mind like a brand.

It was past midnight when trouble struck. Alex was checking the livestock when he heard a soft whistle—the signal one of his outriders used. Moving silently through the shadows, he found Jake Morrison, a grizzled ex-army scout, crouched behind a boulder.

'What is it?' Alex whispered.

'Riders,' Jake breathed. 'Three, maybe four. Been watching us for the better part of an hour. They're trying to stay hidden, but I caught the glint of metal in the moonlight.'

Alex's blood ran cold. It was too soon for Cheyenne—they were still days away from traditional hunting grounds. But Red Tyrone's men? That was another matter entirely. 'Where?'

Jake pointed toward a cluster of rocks about two hundred yards south of camp. 'Been there for the last twenty minutes. Haven't moved since.'

Alex considered his options. A direct confrontation might result in bloodshed, and with families sleeping nearby, that was unacceptable. But he couldn't let potential enemies scout their position unchallenged.

'Take Henderson and circle around to the north,' Alex whispered. 'Give me ten minutes, then start making noise—nothing obvious, just enough to draw attention. I'll come at them from the west.'

The plan worked perfectly. As Henderson began checking the picket lines, talking loudly to the animals, the hidden watchers shifted position to keep him in sight. Alex used the distraction to ghost through the shadows, his moccasined feet silent on the rocky ground.

He was within fifty feet when he heard the voices—low, urgent whispers that confirmed his worst fears.

'...told you to count the wagons and get back,' a gravelly voice was saying. 'Tyrone ain't paying us to play games.'

'Forty-three wagons, like Cobb said,' another voice replied. 'And that scout Rivers is with them, sure enough. Tyrone's gonna want to know about the route they're taking.'

Alex's jaw clenched. Billy Cobb—he should have known. The gambler wasn't just working with Tyrone; he was feeding him information. Every delay, every vulnerable moment was being reported back to Alex's enemies.

Moving with predatory silence, Alex crept closer until he could see the three men clearly. They were hard-looking types, the kind of border ruffians who sold their guns to whoever paid best. All wore the red bandanas that marked them as Tyrone's men.

'Time to go,' the first man whispered. 'We got what we came for.'

As they began to move, Alex made his decision. He needed one of them alive—someone who could confirm Cobb's treachery and reveal Tyrone's plans. His hand closed around a smooth stone, and with practiced ease, he sent it sailing into the darkness beyond the men.

The soft clatter made all three men freeze. 'What was that?' one hissed.

'Probably just a rock lizard,' the leader replied, but his hand had moved to his gun. 'Let's move.'

As they turned to leave, Alex struck. His fist connected with the nearest man's jaw, dropping him silently to the ground. The second man started to turn, hand clawing for his pistol, but Alex's knife hilt caught him behind the ear and he crumpled.

The third man—the leader—was faster. His gun cleared leather in a practiced draw, but Alex was already moving. He tackled the man around the waist, driving him backward into the rocks. They went down in a tangle of thrashing limbs, the pistol flying into the darkness.

The fight was brief but vicious. The outlaw was strong and desperate, but Alex had the advantage of surprise and superior conditioning. A hard right cross ended the struggle, leaving the man dazed and helpless.

'Now,' Alex panted, his knife point touching the man's throat, 'you're going to tell me everything about Tyrone's plans, or I'm going to introduce you to some Cheyenne persuasion techniques I picked up a few years back.'

The man's eyes widened with fear. 'I... I don't know nothing! Tyrone just told us to watch the train, count the wagons!'

'And report back to Billy Cobb,' Alex pressed the knife a little deeper. 'Don't lie to me. I heard you mention his name.'

The outlaw's resistance crumbled. 'All right, all right! Cobb's been feeding Tyrone information since Westport. Route, timing, number of wagons, everything. Tyrone's planning something big, but I swear I don't know what!'

Alex studied the man's terrified face and believed him. Small-time hired guns like this weren't trusted with strategic information. 'Where's Tyrone now?'

'Two days behind you, maybe three. He's got twenty wagons and twice as many men as you do. Hard men, Rivers. Killers.'

The information sent ice through Alex's veins. Twenty men against the handful of armed settlers in his train—it would be a massacre. Unless...

'Tell Tyrone he's welcome to try,' Alex said quietly. 'But remind him what happened to the last man who underestimated me.'

With that, he brought the knife hilt down on the man's temple, sending him into unconsciousness. The other two were beginning to stir, so Alex gathered their weapons and melted back into the shadows. By the time they fully recovered, he was long gone.

The next morning brought new challenges. Dark clouds had gathered during the night, and by dawn, the first drops of rain were spattering the dust. Within an hour, it had become a full-fledged downpour that turned the trail into a quagmire of mud and standing water.

Progress slowed to a crawl as wagon wheels sank hub-deep in the muck. Oxen strained against their yokes, sides heaving with effort, while teamsters cracked whips and shouted encouragement. Women and children huddled under canvas covers, listening to the drumming rain and wondering if the deluge would ever end.

But the rain was the least of their problems. By midday, they reached the banks of Willow Creek—normally a peaceful stream that could be forded without difficulty. The storm had transformed it into a raging torrent forty feet wide and running bank to bank with muddy water.

'No way we're crossing that today,' declared Samuel Whitman, the elected captain of the wagon train. 'We'll have to wait for the water to go down.'

Alex studied the angry water, his mind racing. Every day of delay meant Tyrone drew closer. They needed to keep moving, but the creek was genuinely dangerous. Men had drowned in less threatening waters.

'We can't wait,' he said finally. 'There's a way, but it'll take all of us working together.'

The solution was as dangerous as it was ingenious. Using every spare rope in the train, Alex supervised the construction of a rope bridge across the narrowest point of the creek. The first man across was Jake Morrison, the best swimmer among them, who fought the current to secure the far end.

One by one, the families crossed hand over hand along the rope line, their possessions ferried across in bundles. The wagons themselves had to be floated across like rafts, their wheels removed and lashed underneath for buoyancy.

It was exhausting, terrifying work. Twice children nearly slipped from the rope. Once a wagon broke free and was swept a hundred yards downstream before being recovered. But by evening, every soul and every possession had made it safely across.

As the train circled for the night, Alex found himself the object of grudging admiration from even the most skeptical emigrants. But his satisfaction was tempered by the knowledge of Billy Cobb's treachery. The gambler had helped with the crossing, playing his part perfectly, but Alex caught him watching everything with calculating eyes.

That evening, as Alex checked the perimeter, he encountered Lisa Ruth returning from the creek with water buckets. The rain had stopped, and the first stars were appearing through breaks in the clouds.

'You did a remarkable thing today,' she said softly. 'Father says without your quick thinking, we might have been trapped for days.'

Alex took the heavy buckets from her hands, their fingers brushing in the exchange. 'Just earning my keep, Miss... Lisa.'

She smiled at his use of her first name. 'Billy says you're reckless, that you take unnecessary chances. But I don't think that's true. I think you simply understand this country better than the rest of us.'

The mention of Cobb's name made Alex's jaw tighten, but he kept his voice level. 'Billy Cobb talks a lot. You might want to be careful about believing everything he says.'

Lisa's eyes searched his face in the gathering darkness. 'Is there something about Billy I should know?'

Alex hesitated. He had no proof yet, and accusations without evidence would only make him look jealous. 'Just... be careful. The frontier brings out the truth in people, and sometimes that truth isn't pretty.'

Before Lisa could respond, Billy Cobb appeared out of the darkness like a conjured demon. 'Lisa! I've been looking everywhere for you. You shouldn't be wandering around alone after dark.'

'I'm perfectly safe,' Lisa replied, though Alex noticed she stepped slightly closer to him. 'Mr. Rivers was helping me with the water.'

Cobb's eyes flicked between them, and Alex caught a flash of something cold and dangerous before the gambler's usual mask slipped back into place. 'How thoughtful. But surely our dedicated scout has more pressing duties than playing water boy?'

'Nothing's more important than the safety of the folks in this train,' Alex replied evenly. 'All of them.'

The words carried a subtle warning that wasn't lost on Cobb. The gambler's smile tightened fractionally, but he maintained his pleasant demeanor. 'Admirable sentiment. I'm sure we all feel much safer knowing you're watching over us.'

As if summoned by the tension crackling between the two men, a new sound drifted across the night air—a sound that made every person in the wagon train freeze with primordial terror. It was the war cry of Cheyenne warriors, rising and falling like the howl of hunting wolves.

'Indians!' someone screamed from the far side of camp.

Alex's blood turned to ice water in his veins. They were still two days from traditional Cheyenne territory—this attack was completely unexpected. Unless... His eyes snapped to Billy Cobb, but the gambler had already melted away into the chaos erupting around them.

'Lisa, get to your wagon!' Alex barked, his voice cutting through the rising panic. 'Stay low and don't show any light!'

All around the circle, emigrants were scrambling for their weapons while children cried and women called out in terror. The professional part of Alex's mind catalogued the chaos with grim efficiency—most of these people had never faced an Indian attack, and their panic could prove more deadly than enemy arrows.

'Form up behind the wagons!' Alex roared, his voice carrying the authority of command. 'Every man with a gun! Women and children to the center! Move!'

The war cries were getting closer now, punctuated by the thunder of unshod hooves. In the distance, Alex could see shapes moving against the star-field—perhaps twenty mounted warriors circling the wagon train like wolves around a wounded buffalo.

The first attack came from the northeast, a probe to test the emigrants' defenses. Half a dozen Cheyenne warriors swept in close, loosing arrows from horseback before wheeling away into the darkness. Most of the arrows thudded harmlessly into wagon sides, but one found flesh—old Henrik Johanssen cried out as a flint point buried itself in his shoulder.

'Hold your fire!' Alex commanded as several emigrants raised their rifles. 'Wait until you have clear shots! Every bullet counts!'

The second attack came from three sides at once—a coordinated assault that spoke of skilled war leadership. This time the warriors pressed closer, and Alex could see painted faces and glittering lance points in the starlight.

'Now!' Alex's rifle cracked, and a Cheyenne brave tumbled from his horse. Around the circle, other guns spoke, their muzzle flashes lighting the night like deadly fireflies. Two more warriors fell, but the rest completed their attack, sending a shower of arrows into the wagon circle.

This time the casualties were heavier. Sarah Mitchell screamed as an arrow grazed her arm, while young Tom Bradley took a shaft through his leg. But the emigrants held their positions, courage born of desperation overcoming their terror.

'They're testing us,' Alex called out as he reloaded. 'Next time they'll come for real. Check your powder and stay ready!'

In the relative quiet that followed, Alex became aware of a new sound—the crackle of flames. One of the arrows had been fire-tipped, and the canvas cover of the Henderson wagon was beginning to burn.

'Fire party!' Alex commanded. 'Buckets and sand! Move!'

As emigrants rushed to battle the flames, the Cheyenne struck again. This time it was the full war party, twenty painted warriors thundering in from all directions at once. Their war cries split the night like thunder, and their arrows darkened the sky.

The battle became a nightmare of sound and fury. Guns crashed and men shouted. Women screamed and children wailed. Arrows whispered death through the air while horses screamed and war cries echoed off the canyon walls.

Alex was everywhere at once, his rifle speaking again and again as he moved from position to position. His frontier-honed instincts guided the defense, placing men where they were needed most, shoring up weak points before they could be exploited.

When young Peter Carlson froze with terror, Alex's iron hand on his shoulder and steely voice in his ear brought him back to the fight. When the Jameson wagon looked like breaking, Alex's rifle cleared the attackers just long enough for reinforcements to arrive.

But it was Lisa Ruth who proved the turning point. As Alex battled to hold the northern perimeter, she appeared at his side with a rifle of her own—her father's old Kentucky long gun.

'I can shoot,' she said simply, and proved it by putting a bullet through a Cheyenne brave just as he drew his bow.

Together they held the line as the battle raged around them. Alex had fought in many desperate encounters, but none like this—back to back with a woman whose courage matched his own, facing death together under a canopy of stars.

The end came suddenly. As dawn began to lighten the eastern sky, the Cheyenne war cries faded into the distance. They had tested the wagon train's defenses and found them stronger than expected. With several warriors dead and nothing to show for it, their war leader had called off the attack.

Alex lowered his rifle with shaking hands, suddenly aware of how close they had come to disaster. Around the circle, emigrants emerged from behind wagons like groundhogs after a storm, their faces pale with shock and exhaustion.

The butcher's bill could have been much worse. Three men wounded, none seriously. One wagon damaged by fire. And twenty-seven Cheyenne arrows to be pulled from wagon sides and used again if needed.

As Alex supervised the cleanup and tended to the wounded, he noticed Billy Cobb emerging from the direction of the picket lines. The gambler's clothes were dusty and his hair disheveled, as if he had spent the night crawling around on the ground.

'Quite a night,' Cobb said casually as he approached. 'Lucky thing you had the defenses organized so well.'

Alex studied the man's face, looking for any sign of guilt or knowledge about the attack's timing. But Cobb's expression revealed nothing—a gambler's face, practiced at concealing thoughts and emotions.

'Funny thing about luck,' Alex replied slowly. 'The harder you work at being ready for trouble, the luckier you tend to get.'

Something flickered in Cobb's eyes—perhaps irritation that his subtle probe had been deflected. 'True enough. Well, I suppose we'd better get moving. Can't afford to fall too far behind schedule.'

As the gambler walked away, Alex felt the pieces of the puzzle beginning to fall into place. The unexpected Cheyenne attack, Cobb's absence during the fighting, the convenient timing that would delay the wagon train another day—it all pointed to a larger conspiracy.

Red Tyrone wasn't just following them. He was actively working to slow them down, to place them at a disadvantage for whatever confrontation lay ahead. And Billy Cobb was his agent inside the wagon train, feeding him information and creating opportunities for sabotage.

Alex's jaw tightened with grim determination. The game was becoming clear, but he was far from helpless. Two could play at deception, and Alex Rivers had learned from masters—both Indian and white—who could teach Billy Cobb and Red Tyrone a thing or two about frontier cunning.

The trail ahead would test them all—emigrants and enemies alike. But as Alex watched Lisa Ruth helping to tend the wounded, her face serene despite the night's terrors, he felt something harden inside him like iron cooling in a forge.

Let Tyrone come. Let him bring his twenty men and his schemes and his treachery. The Oregon Trail had claimed many victims over the years, but Alex Rivers intended to make sure that this particular wagon train would not be among them.

The sun climbed higher, burning away the last wisps of morning mist. Forty-three wagons rolled westward once again, their wheels churning up dust that hung in the still air like a banner of defiance. Behind them, unknown to most, enemies gathered like storm clouds. Ahead lay a thousand miles of wilderness, danger, and the promise of a new life for those strong enough to claim it.

And in the heart of it all, a man named Alex Rivers rode point, his eyes on the horizon and his hand never far from his gun. The game had begun in earnest, and there would be no quarter asked or given before it reached its bloody conclusion somewhere on the distant Oregon frontier.

Chapter Three

The morning mist clung to the valley like gun smoke as the wagon train crested the final ridge before Fort Vancouver. Alex Rivers sat tall in his saddle, his weathered hands steady on the reins, but his steel-gray eyes burned with the fire of long-awaited vengeance. Behind him stretched the bone-weary caravan of pioneers who had followed him across two thousand miles of hell and high water, their ox-drawn wagons groaning under the weight of dreams and determination.

"There she is, folks," Alex called back to the settlers, his voice carrying easily over the creak of leather and the low of cattle. "The Columbia River. We made it."

A ragged cheer went up from the train, but Alex's attention was fixed on the settlement below. Somewhere down there, Red Tyrone and his snake of a partner Sanchez were waiting. The reckoning was at hand.

Lisa Horner Ruth guided her family's wagon up beside Alex's horse, her face glowing with the triumph of the completed journey. The months on the trail had bronzed her skin and put steel in her spine, but she was still the prettiest woman west of the Missouri.

"It's beautiful, Alex," she said, gazing down at the green valley spread before them like a promised land. "Just like you said it would be."

Alex nodded grimly. "Beautiful, yes. But there's still business to finish before we can call this home."

Lisa's smile faded as she read the hard purpose in his eyes. She'd seen that look before—when they'd fought off the Cheyenne war party near Devil's Gate, when they'd hauled the wagons down the treacherous slopes of the Blue Mountains. It was the look of a man who'd made peace with killing.

"The gambler?" she asked quietly.

Alex's jaw tightened. Billy Cobb had been sniffing around Lisa like a coyote around a henhouse for most of the journey, his silver tongue and fancy clothes turning the heads of more than a few pioneer women. But Alex had seen through the gambler's polished exterior to the rot beneath. A man who'd throw in with Red Tyrone was capable of any devilry.

"Among others," Alex replied. "You keep close to your family when we reach the fort, Lisa. This could get ugly."

* * *

The wagon train descended into the valley like a great, dust-raising serpent, the lead oxen splashing across the shallow creek that fed into the mighty Columbia. Fort Vancouver sprawled ahead of them, a bustling collection of log buildings and canvas tents where mountain men, Indians, soldiers, and settlers mingled in the rough democracy of the frontier.

Alex rode at the head of the column, his Winchester rifle across his saddle horn and his Colt .45 loose in its holster. His eyes swept the crowd gathering to watch their arrival, searching for the faces that had haunted his dreams for months.

There—near the sutler's store—a flash of red hair above a bull-thick neck. Red Tyrone, still wearing the same brown coat he'd had on the day he murdered old Jake Morrison for a few hundred dollars in beaver pelts. And beside him, lean as a whip and twice as dangerous, the Mexican killer Sanchez.

Alex's hand drifted to his gun, but he forced himself to stay calm. The time would come soon enough.

"Alex Rivers!" The voice rang out across the settlement like a pistol shot. Billy Cobb stood on the porch of the trading post, resplendent in a black frock coat and string tie, his hand resting on the butt of a pearl-handled revolver. "I been waiting for you, friend."

The word 'friend' dripped with mockery. Alex reined in his horse and dismounted slowly, his spurs chiming against the packed earth. Around them, the crowd began to back away, sensing the electricity in the air that preceded sudden death.

"Cobb," Alex said evenly. "I figured you'd show your true colors before this was over."

The gambler's smile was as cold as winter wind off the Columbia. "Nothing personal, Rivers. Just business. Tyrone made me a better offer than leading wagon trains and eating dust."

"What kind of offer?" Alex asked, though he already knew the answer.

"The kind that ends with you face-down in the dirt and me collecting a nice bounty," Cobb drawled. "See, Alex, Tyrone knows you been dogging his trail. Knows you got a powerful hankering to see him dance at the end of a rope. He figured it was time to do something about it."

Alex's hand hovered over his Colt. "And you're the man to do it?"

"Fast enough to take you, Rivers. And when you're dead, that pretty little Lisa will need comforting. I reckon I'm just the man to provide it."

That was the final straw. Alex's hand swept down and up in one fluid motion, the Colt clearing leather with practiced ease. But Cobb was fast too—faster than Alex had expected. The gambler's pearl-handled gun was already coming level when Alex's first shot boomed across the settlement.

The .45 slug took Cobb high in the chest, spinning him around like a child's top. His own shot went wild, the bullet shattering a window in the trading post. He tried to bring his gun back on target, blood frothing at his lips, but Alex's second shot finished him. Billy Cobb pitched forward off the porch and lay still in the dust, his string tie askew and his frock coat ruined.

Alex stood over the body for a moment, smoke still curling from his barrel. "Should have stuck to cards, Billy," he said quietly.

* * *

The sound of gunfire had scattered the crowd like leaves in a whirlwind, but Alex paid them no mind. His eyes were fixed on the two figures who had emerged from the sutler's store—Red Tyrone and Sanchez, both armed and ready for trouble.

"Well, well," Tyrone rumbled, his voice like gravel in a tin cup. "If it ain't the persistent Mr. Rivers. You've come a long way to die, boy."

Alex holstered his smoking Colt and faced the two killers. In the afternoon sun, Tyrone looked even more brutish than Alex remembered—a great bear of a man with hands like ham hocks and eyes like chips of flint. Sanchez was his opposite, thin and quick as a striking snake, his fingers dancing near the matched Colts on his hips.

"I came for Jake Morrison," Alex said, his voice carrying clearly in the sudden stillness. "You remember Jake, don't you, Tyrone? Old mountain man with a limp and a cache of prime beaver pelts?"

Tyrone's laugh was like the snarl of a grizzly. "That old fool? Hell, boy, I killed him so long ago I'd near forgot. Though I do remember them pelts brought a fair price."

"He was like a father to me," Alex said, his hand steady as bedrock. "Taught me everything I know about surviving in the wilderness. Everything I need to put you and your partner in the ground."

Sanchez spat in the dust and spoke for the first time, his accent thick as molasses. "This one, he talks too much, Red. Let me cut his throat and be done with it."

"Now, now, partner," Tyrone said, never taking his eyes off Alex. "Boy wants to make a speech before he dies, let him. Ain't often a man gets to choose his last words."

Alex smiled grimly. "I already said my piece. Now let's finish this."

The three men faced each other in the dusty street like gunslingers from a penny dreadful, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows behind them. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. A window shutter creaked in the breeze. Then Sanchez made his move.

The Mexican's hands flashed to his guns with rattlesnake speed, but Alex was already moving. He dove to the left as Sanchez's first shot kicked up dust where he'd been standing, rolling behind a water trough as the killer's second Colt barked death.

Tyrone's big Dragoon pistol boomed like thunder, the heavy ball splintering the trough and sending water cascading into the street. Alex came up firing, his Colt bucking in his hand as he put two quick shots center mass into Sanchez.

The Mexican folded like a house of cards, both guns falling from nerveless fingers as he crumpled to the earth. But Tyrone was still on his feet, still dangerous, reloading his massive pistol with the calm efficiency of a man who'd killed before and expected to kill again.

Alex rolled again as Tyrone's reloaded gun thundered, the ball whining past his ear close enough to part his hair. He came up behind a hitching post, but the rotten wood offered scant protection from Tyrone's cannon.

"Come out and die like a man, Rivers!" Tyrone roared. "Or are you gonna hide behind that post like a yellow cur?"

Alex checked his cylinder—two shots left. He'd have to make them count. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out into the open, his Colt steady in a two-handed grip.

Tyrone was waiting for him, the big Dragoon leveled at Alex's chest. For a heartbeat, the two men stared at each other across twenty feet of dusty ground. Then they fired simultaneously.

Alex felt the wind of Tyrone's ball as it passed his shoulder, but his own shot flew true. The .45 slug took the big man square in the chest, staggering him backward. But Tyrone was tough as a Missouri mule—he stayed on his feet and started to raise his gun again.

Alex's last shot took him between the eyes.

Red Tyrone toppled backward like a felled tree, his Dragoon pistol falling from dead fingers to clatter in the dust beside Sanchez's still form. The echoes of gunfire rolled away across the valley, leaving only the whisper of wind through the pines.

* * *

Alex stood over the bodies of his enemies, smoke drifting from his empty gun. The debt was paid. Jake Morrison could rest easy now, knowing his killers had faced frontier justice.

Slowly, the settlers began to emerge from cover, their faces filled with awe and no small amount of fear. They'd known Alex Rivers was a hard man, but seeing him in action was something else entirely. This was what it took to survive in the wilderness—the willingness to face death with steady hands and an unblinking eye.

Lisa pushed through the crowd, her face pale but determined. She'd seen the whole fight from behind her family's wagon, had watched the man she loved risk everything for the sake of an old friend's memory.

"Is it over?" she asked quietly, her hand resting on his arm.

Alex nodded, reloading his Colt with practiced movements. "It's over. Jake can rest now."

"And us?" Lisa asked, her blue eyes searching his face. "What about us, Alex?"

Alex holstered his gun and took her hands in his. They were good hands, he thought—strong from months of hard travel, but still soft enough to remind a man what he was fighting for.

"The past is buried with them," he said, nodding toward the bodies. "Now we build something new. Something clean."

Lisa smiled then, the first real smile he'd seen from her since they'd started this dangerous business. "I'd like that, Alex Rivers. I'd like that very much."

* * *

Three months later, Alex stood on the porch of the cabin he'd built with his own hands, watching the sun set over the Willamette Valley. The structure was solid—good Oregon pine chinked with clay and moss, with a stone chimney that drew clean and a roof that wouldn't leak come winter.

Behind him, Lisa hummed as she prepared supper, the domestic sound mixing with the lowing of cattle and the distant ring of an ax where one of their neighbors was clearing timber. The settlement was growing fast—new families arriving every week, drawn by reports of rich soil and endless opportunity.

Alex had claimed a section along the river, rich bottom land perfect for farming. He'd also hung out his shingle as a guide for wagon trains, using his hard-won knowledge of the trail to help other families make the perilous journey west. It was good work, honest work, and it paid well enough to build the kind of life he'd always dreamed of.

"Alex?" Lisa called from the doorway. "Supper's ready."

He turned to look at her, framed in the golden light of the cabin. They'd been married by the circuit preacher two weeks after the shooting, with the whole settlement turning out for the celebration. Mrs. Alex Rivers looked as beautiful as the day he'd first seen her in Westport, but there was something different now—a contentment that came from finding your place in the world.

"Coming," he said, taking one last look at the valley that stretched away toward the distant mountains. Somewhere out there, new wagon trains were fighting their way across the plains and through the passes, following the ruts his own train had carved into the earth. Some would make it, some wouldn't—that was the way of the frontier.

But for those who did make it through, there would be land like this waiting—rich and green and full of promise. Land worth fighting for, worth dying for, worth building a life on.

Alex Rivers had followed the trail to its end and found everything he'd been looking for—justice for an old friend, love with a good woman, and a place to call home. The rugged trail was behind him now. Ahead lay only possibilities.

THE END