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By Joe R. Lansdale

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I liked having friends I could count on, and they, along with Bucklaw, had served time after time. Mix was carrying a modern revolver, and racked near the fireplace were two shiny Winchesters and a fine double-barreled shotgun. I kept them, as well as the armed men outside, in mind. I was certain of one thing. If we did not join Carson, we’d be buzzard chow by sunup. Once recruited, you were in, like it or not. Knowing Bucklaw, I figured that was the way he saw it too. ” Bucklaw said. Carson nodded, called to the Indian woman for more coffee and food.

Bucklaw seemed to dangle in the air as if on strings, then he fell down on top of me. I tried to crawl out from under him, get hold of my revolver, but it was impossible. Too weak. I couldn’t move. Above me was a fuzzy shape. Carson had taken one of the dead men’s horses and remounted. 44. Then there was thunder. It seemed to rumble for an eternity, mix horribly with the dying sounds of women and children, and then I fell from life down the long trail of death. Or so I thought at the time. ” Chapter Two 1 When I awoke, I was first aware of a fly in my ear.

My shoulder was about as handy as a nail-hung razor strap and my side and head hurt something awful, but compared to how I had felt, I was one fine specimen. I was very hungry and thirsty. Using my good arm, I managed to haul myself out of the aisle and into one of the passenger seats. From there I could look out the window and see Carson’s handiwork: dead bodies turning black, flies buzzing, buzzards feasting. At that very moment the harpies were all over Bucklaw. I felt sick inside. I wanted to bury Bob, but didn’t have the strength.

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