Chapter 9

The hot sun was beating on his back and Buck was anxious to return to the main house. He was hot and hungry but he stopped his horse when he saw a group of young men standing around a half-finished fence. His gaze dropped to the shallow hole on the ground and the wooden pole lying beside it. He knew what happened even before the men said anything. They hit solid rock in their digging. "What's the problem here?"

"We can't go through it, sir," one of the ranch hands said. "We tried," he added, motioning towards a pair of crumpled shovels.

"You can't go through it with shovels, you need a pickax," Buck told the young worker patiently. He motioned for one of the ranch hands, Adrian, to get the needed equipment and as the young man rode away, Buck looked over the group before him. John, Ringo and George. They were all quite new to the ranch. They were in their late teens, a bit on the lean side except for George, who was quite muscular for his age.

"How long have you been going at it?" Buck asked.

"For about an hour, sir," John responded. He seemed to be a talkative sort. Paul and George nodded and grunted their assents.

"And you didn't ask for help from any of the men?"

"Thought we could do it ourselves, sir," John answered, embarrassed.

Buck shook his head, "Next time, don't hesitate to ask for help. You're wasting time and you're not getting anything done with this. Is that clear?" He looked at the young men one after the other until all have nodded. "Good."

It was the middle of the afternoon and the grumbling in Buck's stomach reminded him that he missed lunch. But the boys needed help, so he dismounted from his horse and tied it to a tree. As they waited for Adrian to return, Buck checked the length of the fence. He tested the barb wire to make sure it was stretched tightly across the posts. The young men chatted among themselves, half-heartedly trying to break the hard rock. Buck generally ignored the conversation, hearing only snatches of it. Until something caught his attention.

"... riddled with bullets. Everybody in that house was dead. And they said blood was smeared all ..." John trailed off when he realized Buck was standing very close to him, listening to his every word.

"Continue," Buck ordered curtly.

John turned a bright shade of red under Buck's inscrutable gaze. "That's, uh, really the, uh, end of it, sir," he stammered out.

"Where did you hear the story?"

"Uh, saloon, sir? Last night, uh, a group of men from Rock Creek were talking about it." John gingerly pulled at his collar, which suddenly felt too tight for him. Younger ranch hands weren't allowed to go to the saloon, except on their days off. And last night was definitely part of the work week.

"And that's all you heard?" Buck lifted a brow.

"Yes, sir," John nodded vigorously, his straight brown hair flopping wildly on his face.

Buck fixed him stare, then just when he thought he'll get nothing from the young man, John spoke up hurriedly, "Blood was used to write a message on the wall, Mr. Buck."

"What did it say?" Buck asked quietly, the hair at the back of his neck already standing.

"It said, 'I'm coming for you, son'".

*****
Seven deadly-looking men stared down at the Kid. The young marshall unflinchingly stared back. Which was quiet easy to do, he told himself, when the faces before you were drawn almost unrecognizably in pencil. It was another thing to stare at eyes as familiar as your own, at a face you've known since childhood. Kid dropped his gaze from the Wanted posters he had been studying intently to the now-cold cup of coffee he held in his hands.

Your father may be alive.

The words had sent chills of terror down his spine the first time he heard them. And that was only a couple of hours ago. He had passed by the Ladyluck Saloon to say hi to Amanda O'Connell, who had bought the establishment a year ago. He had been sipping sarsaparilla and enjoying a couple of jokes with some men when Amanda had taken him aside and had told him the gory tale she heard the night before.

A posse returning to Rock Creek had dropped by the saloon late that night for a few bottles of whiskey, a consolation after they lost the gang of criminals they had been pursuing. The gang had attacked a house on the outskirts of town. Several horses had been stolen, the others had been burned along with the stables. The owners must have put up a fight because the house had been full of lead. No one had survived.

The cruelty of the attack was shocking, though not unusual in the untamed West. What was chilling was the message the gang left. Written in blood, smeared on the wall outside the house for all to see -- I'M COMING FOR YOU, SON.

No mention of the Black Raiders were made by the men from Rock Creek. After all the notorious criminals who terrorized the territory have been dead for two years. Since then, a handful of gangs have plagued the territory and the Black Raiders have becomes footnotes to the West's brutal history.

But not for the Kid.

He had seen his father take that fatal dive down the ravine. He had heard his ghoulish scream. But when he heard Amanda's story, he knew right away he wasn't free of the demons of his past. He didn't know how he knew, but his gut was screaming with certainty. The first question Kid had asked Amanda was if they knew the family killed in Rock Creek, thinking of good friends Mike and Rachel Staulder. Amanda told him that the house seemed to have been randomly chosen.

The pain in his fingers brought his attention back to the tin cup he was gripping too tightly. Slowly, he unwrapped his fingers from the cup and placed it on the table. Icy fear was creeping into his heart, his thoughts on his family.

Suddenly, the door to the Marshall's office flung open. Kid whipped his gun from his holster, cocked it and aimed it at the intruder, all in the space of a heartbeat. Buck quickly raised his hands and stepped back as he found himself staring down the barrel of Kid's Colt.

"Kid, it's me," Buck said quietly, his voice laced with concern for his jumpy friend.

Several more tense moments followed before Kid put down his gun. Buck's voice finally cut through the swath of terror that enveloped him. Drained, Kid cautiously sat down and shakily put his head down between his hands. He had come so close to shooting his friend.

"You okay?" Buck asked.

"Yeah," Kid answered without looking at his friend. "You?"

"Good." There was no need to add that his heartbeat had yet to return to its normal pace. "You look kinda spooked."

Kid waved casually at the Wanted posters. "Hanging around all day with these guys do that."

"Uh-huh," Buck responded noncommittally. He had an idea what got Kid primed and ready to shoot and it ain't the ugly men on the wall. It was the very same idea that sent him into town in the middle of the day. Buck cleared his throat, "I heard there was some trouble in Rock Creek."

Kid didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice had an odd tone in it. "Yeah, several people were murdered." He stood up and walked to the door. He nodded at the passers-by before tossing the cold contents of his cup. When he came back inside, Buck had two fresh cups of coffee ready. "They left a message, you know."

"Anyone we know?" Buck asked lightly as he sipped the bitter brew.

 Kid eyed his friend from the brim of his cup ."I'm not sure."

"Could be any of the gangs in the territory."

"There seems to be a lot of them these days," Kid agreed.

"They could have read about the old murders ... " Buck's voice trailed off.

"... and decided to imitate them," Kid continued. He stood before the glass windows of his office but he didn't notice the people outside. He was thinking of the bloody battle that took the lives of several friends last year. "The Black Raiders are gone. We saw to that. Men don't return from the dead," he said harshly.

"I know that," Buck said.

For a long time Buck and Kid sipped their coffee in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. Finally, one spoke up. 

"Buck?" Kid called out softly.

"Yeah?"

Deep sigh. "It could be my father."

Long silence followed the quiet statement. Buck tossed back his coffee, wishing it was something stronger, like whiskey. "I know that, too."

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