Sunday's Colt & Other Stories by Randy D. Smith Page A

City.
    â€œThere’d be several of us from Trail City at the funeral but that herd is due in any day,” Bennet said. “Tell Mrs. Olive that, would you?”
    â€œSure, Tom, I’ll tell her that. I know she’ll understand.”
    â€œI suppose she’ll want to sell out of this Trail City deal.”
    Sam shook his head. “I can’t say what she’ll want to do. I’m sure she’ll say.”
    Bennet watched them slide the coffin into the boxcar. “I sure wish Print had been armed. Sparrow would have never took that last shot if he had.”
    Sam nodded, uncomfortable with the image.
    â€œYou know Sparrow will claim self-defense what with that threat Print made and all. And with Print’s reputation, he just might get off.”
    Sam stepped up into the boxcar and sighed. “I know. That fellow shot Mister Print for what he used to be. Not for what he is.”
    â€œHow was he supposed to know that?” Bennet asked as he handed Sam his bag.
    Sam turned his eyes for one last look at Trail City. “I don’t rightly know. I guess maybe he wouldn’t.”
    The crew slid the door partially closed, the train jerked to a start, and Bennet waved goodbye.
    For quite a while Sam sat by the coffin and watched the countryside as it drifted by. As the train neared the Aubrey Cut-Off, he put his hand on the top of Print’s coffin and gently gave it a pat. He shook his head and said softly, “Twelve dollars.”
    As the train rolled on toward Dodge City, Sam sat by the coffin and wept.

Showdown Along the Cimarron
    I
    John McKnight stepped to the top of a sandy ridge and gazed upon the valley of the Cimarron River. He paused to catch a breath, placed the butt of his flintlock long rifle on the ground between his feet, tipped his low-crowned black felt hat to the back of his head, and enjoyed a gentle south breeze against his matted, sweat-soaked brown hair.
    Tom James groaned as he led two packhorses to the crest of the dune. He scanned the broad, lush floodplain and with a sweeping gesture of his right arm, silently announced a successful crossing.
    Jeemy Wilson, the next to top the crest with his packhorses, shouted a war whoop of satisfaction as he stared upon the shallow sluggish waters of the Cimarron. The graybeard had correctly predicted a two-day passage across the plain between the Arkansas and Salt Rivers.
    â€œLooks good, don’t it?” McKnight asked in his customarily quiet manner.
    James grinned as he placed the butt of his rifle into the dirt and assumed a twin pose to his partner. “Couldn’t look better.”
    Jeemy Wilson squinted and pointed a gnarled finger toward far white bluffs across the valley. “I’ll bet ya them’s buffalo over there to the northwest.”
    The rest of the brigade members topped the dune leading their pack animals toward the bottoms. John James was Tom’s younger brother. David Kirkee was a bit older, in his thirties, and the smallest of the men. Bill Shearer, Alex Howard, Ben Potter, and John Ivy were men in their twenties. Frederick Howard was older and had a family in Missouri.
    John McKnight was the managing partner of a profitable St. Louis trading company known as McKnight & Brady. He had received word a year earlier that his brother, Robert, was alive in a prison near Santa Fe. Ten years earlier, Robert led a trading expedition to Santa Fe, but the party vanished. John intended to find his brother, buy his freedom, and return home. Tom James and Fred Howard were old friends who needed a chance to make up for failed trading ventures along the Mississippi. If all went well, the brigade would reap a fortune from the twelve thousand dollars worth of goods purchased in St. Louis by James and McKnight.
    The last man over the ridge was the interpreter, a Spaniard named Francois Maesaw. He was looked upon with suspicion and avoided by all except McKnight and Jeemy Wilson. When he