About an hour's ride northeast of town, Morgan Tanner, the banker Simon Greenbaum and ten gunhands were approaching Olsen's Falls. Tanner was in an exceptionally foul mood. He'd planned to be absent from Olsen's Falls for a couple of days, in order to give Murdoch time to leave and help Bolton bury his son and whichever of his dead cowhands he chose to bury on his ranch. However, recent events necessitated his premature return to Olsen's Falls.

Earlier, after riding out of town with Jones, Portalis and Jason, Tanner had been accosted by the old mountain man, Jared Ransom. Tanner had been angry with him, both for not succeeding in ridding him of that nuisance Jesse Logan, and for not going straight out to the line shack bordering the BAR-O and MT spreads to await further orders. Ransom had complained that he wanted to see Tanner for himself, wishing to know what effect if any, his shot had actually had on Logan, and if Logan had died later, he had wanted his pay. Morgan informed him that Logan was alive and well, and thoroughly suspicious, and not only that, he'd been alive enough to gun down Bucktooth Wilson. Tanner then roundly castigated the old man for failing in his assignment.

Ransom had then complained that the whole setup had been Tanner's idea and that had Tanner let him do things his own way, Logan would now be dead for certain. Tanner had informed him that things were more complicated than that, and that Ransom was not to try anything without orders from Tanner himself, or he would be paid nothing. Tanner wanted no loose ends that he could not account for entirely.

He had then reiterated his orders for Ransom to go to the line shack and to remain there until further notice. Ransom had cursed somewhat under his breath, but when Portalis started casually fingering his pistol and smiling, Ransom had acquiesced and departed without further complaint.

Tanner and crew had continued on to the ranchhouse which was about a two hour ride from Olsen's Falls, to the west, and approximately twice that distance from Camp Stockton to the north.

The hacienda was a modest two story adobe affair that was surrounded on four sides by twelve foot adobe walls which enclosed a little over an acre and a half. The place had the appearance of a fort and in fact, had been built with defense in mind. The walls were almost three feet thick with parapets rising six and one half feet from the ground running the full length of the inside walls. There were a few trees inside the enclosure but none for over two-hundred yards on any side of the outside walls. The surrounding terrain was mostly grass and scrub brush for several miles and primarily flat, thus affording an excellent view of anyone coming or going.

Tanner, his military thinking in evidence, had kept the grass burned down for up to a hundred yards on every side. There was a well in the center of the courtyard and some small stables for horses and beef. The place could sustain an Indian siege for several days on end with little difficulty, and ostensibly, was why the place had been designed after such a fashion. However, when He'd had it built, Tanner had been more concerned with withstanding a possible siege from white men rather than Indians, should it ever become necessary.

The house itself was only sparsely furnished with few of the niceties and creature comforts Tanner had been accustomed to back east. However, in his mind, the place was only a temporary headquarters until he obtained the Murdoch spread. Then, he planned to build a mansion unequaled anywhere in the west. Probably in the Davis Mountains near the Murdoch ranchhouse, due to its scenic beauty. By then, he would own the whole territory and have no need of a fortress.

A couple of hours after his arrival, the banker, Simon Greenbaum had arrived in his buggy. Not too long after Tanner's departure, Murdoch had gone to the bank and paid off Joe Bolton's mortgage and deposited a fair amount of cash into his account. This news came as little surprise to Tanner who had been halfway expecting as much. What did disturb him considerably and had even infuriated him was the fact that Captain Russell Fogg had opened up an account and deposited a large sum of money. Fogg had boasted about his spread, and had produced papers purporting to prove that the land encompassing the Woods Hollow Mountains did not belong to Tanner, but was in fact, legally the property of Fogg.

Tanner needed desperately to consult his lawyer to see if there was any way he could legally dispute the claim. The banker doubted that he could. All Tanner needed though, was some shred of doubt, and then he would fight for it and take it by force. He had no intention of taking it to court. Such procedures could take months, maybe years, and that simply wasn't on his timetable. So he'd rounded up some of his better gunmen and headed back to town.

The gunmen that were riding with him at the moment were Peaceful Jones, Bart Jason, Chico Portalis, Jake Barlow, Swede Larson, Jack Duane, Colt Ballard, Punk Watkins, Bob Hermann and Charles Shade.

Watkins was a short wiry man who had killed eight men in gunfights and was also good with a rifle. Hermann, was an ex-ranger who had fought in the war against Yankees as well as against Indians. He'd reportedly killed over ten men in gunfights and was known for his courage. Having fallen out with the rangers, he'd commenced hiring out his gun to the highest bidder. Charles Shade was a gunman and mercenary who had hired out his guns in both the United States and Mexico. He had killed eleven men over the years in gunfights in the United States, but it was unknown how many had fallen before his gun in Mexico. What was known was that he was fast, and he was greatly feared in both countries.

Jack Duane was twenty-five years old and up until he was twenty-three, they had said he'd killed a man for every year of his life. That statement had to be revised somewhat for since his twenty fourth birthday, he'd killed eight men largely because of the Braxton-Tucker feud that had only recently ended in Dewitt and Gonzales Counties in central Texas. The Braxtons had finally won, in no small part due to Duane's pistols. He'd cut down one after another of the Tuckers' best gunmen and finally ended the feud by killing Jonse Tucker (who had been an expert gunman himself) along with three of his best gunhands.

Duane was six-two and weighed around one-hundred-ninety pounds, all of it lean muscle. He was clean-shaven and darkly handsome. He had brown hair and wore a brown stetson with an eagle feather in the hatband. His lips were thin, skin tanned but not weathered, his body young and lithe, but the emerald green eyes were remote with an expression as old as time and--? What was it there? Hate? No, not exactly. Jack Duane himself could not have answered that question. But every casual stranger knew. Even a man not given to sizing up anything or anybody knew instantly that this was not a laughing man; that this man was different, set apart. Someone to respect--and fear.

He carried two Remington 44 pistols, one on each hip. He was expert with them using either hand, or both at the same time. Although he had a ready smile, he laughed little and spoke rarely. But when he did speak, people listened. He rarely picked fights, but never backed down once a fight had started. He'd decided that hiring out his gun was the best way he knew of making a living. However, even the casual observer would have noticed that those striking green eyes carried a haunted and harried look about them.

Unlike some of the other gunmen Tanner had hired, Duane did have some scruples. He would have never taken part in such slayings as had occurred the previous night in Olsen's Falls. To Duane, killing someone like Joe Bolton, after provoking him into a fight, even though he was armed also, was almost as bad as killing an unarmed man. He took pride in the fact that he'd never killed anyone besides other expert gunmen or outlaws whom he considered just a step above coyotes anyway. When he hired on with Tanner, he had made it clear that he'd not participate in any underhanded killings. Men like Jones and Jason, turned his stomach. However, they all rode for the same brand, and as long as he himself rode for it, he would tolerate their company.

Although he had no doubts about his own abilities with a pistol, and heaven help any man foolish enough to challenge him, Jack Duane was a man who was struggling inwardly. He had difficulty looking at himself in the mirror each day. Who was he? What did he really stand for, and what would he leave behind when he passed on?

In his own mind, he saw himself as a failure. This led him to take reckless chances in gunfights against odds that were often stacked highly against him. However, he never deliberately slowed his draw in hopes that he'd lose and his life be at an end. The reason was, that he could not let go of life without having accomplished something worthwhile. However, what it was in life that was useful that he might accomplish, was as elusive to him as the will-O-wisp. He had no idea what it was he should achieve or how to go about looking for it. Nevertheless, he felt it was out there and that he'd know when he found it. Thus, he practiced often with his pistols, forever sharpening skills that like those of Lancer, and a couple of his present companions with Tanner, were already well beyond the imagination of most men.

The one area he had no self doubts about was his ability with his guns. Most of the time, he kept to himself, but lately, he had been opening up, due to the influence of Colt Ballard, who was rapidly becoming the best friend Duane had ever had.

Duane, due to his ongoing inward struggle, had become more and more introspective and withdrawn. He had to limit himself to no more than three drinks at one time in order to avoid sinking into despair and self-pity, or worse, as had happened on one occasion, a blind, killing rage. Ballard had succeeded in drawing him out more and more as of late, and had on more than one occasion, caused him to break out in genuine heart-felt laughter. Until he'd met Colt Ballard, Jack Duane had not truly laughed in nearly three years.

If Duane was often gloomy and introverted, Colt Ballard was just the opposite. Easygoing much of the time, gregarious and often flamboyant, usually the life of the party. He wasn't necessarily a man of strong moral character, but few would label him as outright evil either. He stood about six-one, and had medium length blond hair and was clean shaven. He was always smiling and was quick to laugh or joke. Nevertheless, the string of dead men he had left behind him was no laughing matter. Like Duane, he had killed over thirty men, but Ballard, was only twenty-three. He'd traveled all over the west, usually leaving a town only after he had worn out his welcome by gunning down the wrong man. Already, he had been a town marshal in one cattle town in Kansas, keeping it tame for the respectable folk in the town. Unfortunately, he had killed too many men on the job, and the Cattlemen had begun taking their herds to other towns. This of course, deprived the town of business thus, the town council had relieved Colt of his badge. It hadn't bothered Ballard in the least though. Disappointments ran off him like water off a duck's back.

On that particular occasion, he had simply moved to a neighboring town and hired on as a deputy marshal. The neighboring town, had been experiencing the same problems as the one he had just left, and the townsfolk had feared for their lives on a nightly basis. Their current marshal, though well liked, had been unable to keep the peace. They hadn't wanted to fire him so they simply hired Ballard as a deputy after hearing of his reputation in the previous town. In a matter of three months, Colt had gunned down ten men. Four of them in one night after they had set out purposely to rid the town of him. Even though they had surrounded him, he killed all four in about a second's time. Unfortunately, once again, the town started losing business because the cowboys began avoiding the town. Too many men gunned down, or heads busted when Ballard felt that his pistols were unnecessary. Ballard didn't mind. In fact, he was glad to get away from being a marshal or deputy marshal. He rarely felt guilty about anything, but did suffer a twinge of conscience at shooting up, or busting up rowdy cowboys who were out for a good time.

The fact was, he had often done the same thing, and had treed several towns himself in the past. When not working for the law, Ballard was quite the hell-raiser as well. To him, there was nothing in life to be accomplished except to have fun. The world in his view, was one big playground, and he played as hard and reckless as anyone in it. Although he wouldn't gun down a helpless or seriously outclassed opponent (unless that outclassed opponent forced him too), he loved the danger involved in gunfights. He was almost as addicted to it as some men are to gambling or the bottle.

Ballard rarely practiced with a gun, although he often showed off with them. He felt he was as good as any man could possibly be as it was. He had only to point a pistol as one pointed a finger, and he was virtually certain of hitting his mark--within a reasonable distance. As to speed, he was incredibly fast, like Duane, with either hand, or both simultaneously. But beyond that, his co-ordination was unbelievable. Often, he would show off by juggling pistols, two or three at a time. Alternately cocking and firing one after another, hitting tin cans at twenty paces until all were emptied, all the while, keeping the guns dancing in the air. Duane chided him about such ostentatious displays, claiming that they amounted to nothing whatsoever. However, Ballard pointed out that Duane could not do the same thing. Duane had merely replied that all he needed was to draw fast and hit what he aimed for, and that, he'd said, he did better than anyone. Ballard just laughed, never bothering to dispute his claim.

At the moment however, as the men neared Olsen's Falls, none were laughing, and even Ballard's expression appeared subdued, and he seemed somewhat introspective which was highly unusual for him. The word had spread rapidly concerning Captain Fogg and his men.

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