Chapter 1

Texas Heritage

The gray dawn of the late summer morning was cold and crisp. Autumn was almost upon the Tonto; the sea of green needles was broken by patches of red and gold quaking aspens and cottonwoods. The great Ponderosa pines that blanketed the upper slopes of the Arizona mountains where interspersed with large Douglas fir and ramrod straight Blue spruce. These giants of the evergreen world gave way to smaller pinions and junipers at lower elevations, which in turn gave to sage, rabbit brush, and gamma grass in the Basin and flatlands.

The morning stillness was broken by the call of lone elk, a trumpet that echoed through the pines long after the stag had moved on. Through this pristine wilderness came a lone rider. Dressed in buckskins and mounted on a dark bay horse, from a distance he might have been mistaken for an Indian. He rode tall in the saddle; a position achieved with such ease that he might have been born there. Five foot and eleven inches with a narrow waist and broad shoulders he was a striking and picturesque figure. He had a handsome face with a strong chin, prominent cheekbones, and an arrow straight nose. His face was clean-shaven and framed by a mane of coal black hair that was topped by a black, wide-brimmed, flat-crowned hat.

His skin was a deep bronze, both from a life under the sun and as an inheritance from his Gypsy mother. His young body was lean and hard, his muscles were not bulky but nor were they wiry. He carried almost no fat and was kept in perfect condition by long hours of training exercises in the Gypsy arts of hand-to-hand combat and knife fighting as well as the daily ranch chores. Unlike most riders he was also at home on foot, a fast runner with the endurance of a mule he often opted to forgo his mount and hunt on foot.

But the most striking feature the rider possessed were a pair of bright, azure blue eyes, an inheritance from his Texan father, Jim Travis. In these eyes were wisdom and suffering beyond his fourteen years. At the age of six Kit Travis had watched as his mother was brutally murdered by Indians before picking up his father’s gun and killing three of them. A year later young Kit had survived five more Indian raids by Kiowas, Commanches, and been kidnapped by Apaches. During his five-year captivity he earned the respect of the Mescalaro chief and was adopted as the chief’s blood brother. The chief had then seen that Kit was taught the ways of the Apache until he could out track even the chief. Then he was given a pony, the very bay he now rode, and sent off to catch up with his father. When Kit reached the new ranch in Arizona he was mistaken at first for an Indian until he his disbelieving father finally recognized the son he thought was dead.

After reaching the Tonto Basin Jim Travis had started a small ranch and had found and married another woman, a fiery Irish woman named Mary. Now Kit had two younger half-siblings, a five year-old brother, Jim Jr. and a four year-old sister, Alex. Though Mary had adopted Kit as her own and they loved each other dearly, neither she nor his father really understood him. His love of the wilderness and Apache-like coolness towards other humans made him hard to be close to. The only being Kit showed open affection towards was his auburn-haired sister who was oblivious to her older brother’s dislike of other humans. He also possessed a savageness and was not adverse to violence. This was more pronounced since his stay with the Apaches but had begun the day he watched his mother die. His father had seen this personality before in his own father, a Texas gunman and outlaw, as well as in his brother-in-law a close friend of Bill Travis. It was through his father’s partner that he had met Kit’s mother, and it was also he who had taught Kit the gypsy ways of fighting.

Kit rode slowly, his .44 Winchester rifle across the saddle in front of him, listening intently to the woods around him. The keen azure eyes saw a story in every patch of dirt, over turned leaf, and tree trunk. The faint trail of a passing elk, the fresh cache of a hunting fox, and roosting place of a wild turkey flock. A light breeze blew gently on his face and he breathed in the rich scent of pine needles. In that moment his sharp ears picked up the barely audible tread of an elk heading his way. Kit pulled Blaze up behind a huge Douglas fir and waited for the animal to approach. A few minutes later a large nine hundred-pound stag walked into view. Kit eased his rifle up to bear with the stag’s neck, just behind the head. When the stag paused to sniff the air he squeezed off a single shot that dropped the elk where it stood.

Stepping from the saddle, Kit took out a large hunting knife and set about skinning and dressing the meat. After sectioning the haunches and shoulders and wrapping them in the hide he cut strips from the back and ribs. Gathering dry wood and twigs he started a small fire and laid the strips on green branches over the flames. Then he placed the hide packets of meat behind the saddle and tied them into place. From his saddlebags he took a small coffeepot, some coffee beans and a cup; after filling the pot with water from his canteen he set it on the fire and waited for the coffee to boil.

An hour later he was finishing his second cup of coffee and dining on roasted strips of elk meat. Kit listened to an Albert’s squirrel angrily scolding a scrub jay and smiled to himself. A boy who rarely smiled, his faced was completely changed when he did. Over the years his good looks had caught the attention of several girls but they moved on once confronted by his cool manner.

“This is the life, ain’t it, Blaze?” Kit sighed. Blaze merely snorted and continued to wait patiently for his rider to finish his meal. Kit let out a small laugh and downed the rest of coffee. Then he dumped the pot on the fire to put it out and packed up the remaining meat, pot, and cup. He tightened the cinch and remounted, heading back for home.

He was half way there when he found something that caused him to stop and investigate.

“Looks to be the trail of about fourteen, mebbe fifteen shod horses, Blaze. Wonder where they’re headin’? They’re ridin’ close together, but with shod horses they ain’t Injuns.” Kit drawled as he inspected the tracks from the saddle. He was about to move on when he one set of tracks in particular. The realization of who was in the group struck Kit like a hard blow to the stomach. He suddenly felt sick with dread.

“ Damn it! Those are the tracks of thet big gray horse Ben Davis always rides. And the trail is headin’ for the ranch!”

Ben Davis was the cruel brother and enforcer of the cattle baron Kyle Davis of the Lazy D ranch and the man who was trying to run the Travis’ out of the Tonto. Davis’ popularity and power as well as his gunman brother put the Travis’ in a difficult position. They had few friends and had not been to town very often, allowing Davis to paint them as rough outlaw types who were a danger to the community. The fact that they were related to “Bloody” Bill Travis, the Texas outlaw, did not help.

The tracks were made two hours ago, at the pace they were moving they should have arrived at the ranch fifteen minutes ago, thought Kit. Then as if on cue the crash of gunshots reverberated through the hills. Kit cut the extra weight from his saddle, wheeled Blaze towards home, and slapped his heels to the horse’s sides. Blaze leaped into a full gallop but Kit knew that to maintain the speed was impossible over the uneven and rocky terrain. He was almost an hour away even with all of his short cuts. He knew he would never make it in time.

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It was young Jim Travis who saw the riders first; Ma looked up at his call to see five heavily armed men coming toward them. Though they were still a half-mile off Mary Travis could smell trouble and quickly told Jim to grab the old sharps rifle and a blanket while she filled a pack with some food. Then she told him to take his sister, Alex, out into the woods and head for the trap-line. With any luck they would meet Kit on his way back.

Mary Travis felt a cold, sickening dread as she watched the riders’ approach. They came from the pasture where the Travis herd was kept and earlier she thought she had heard gunshots. She was alone and Jim was not with the riders.

When the riders were but a few hundred yards away Mary recognized Ben Davis in the lead. She was standing in front of the house when they rode up. Raising her chin, Mary defiantly met Davis’ gaze. He smiled a cold, evil smile that did not reach his gray eyes.

“You’re a fine figure of a woman,” Davis said. “Never could figure what you wanted with a nester like Travis when there are real men about.”

Mary didn’t reply. She didn’t like the glint in Davis’ eyes nor did she like the gazes the other four men were giving her. These were not the usual Lazy D riders; these were hard men, brought in for one thing and one thing only. Killing.

“But now yu don’t have no nester to worry about. I reckoned yu might git a bit lonely so I rode up ta give yu some company” he continued, chuckling harshly.

“I don’t want your company, Ben Davis! Not now, not ever! Now get off my ranch!” Mary replied with vicious contempt.

“Wal, now. Looks like she’s got some real spunk, eh boys?” said Davis and the men snickered. “No matter. I like my women fiery” he continued, dismounting and walking towards her.

“I said get off my ranch!” Mary cried.

“ ‘Fraid it ain’t yers no more. This here range belongs ta the Lazy D now. And seein’ as yer tresspassin’ yer gonna have ta pay me a little toll.” Davis grinned wolfishly at her. Then suddenly he grabbed and pulling her close began to kiss her roughly. As Mary struggled to free herself the hot kisses fell everywhere but her lips. Finally getting a hand free she slapped Davis a hard stinging blow across the mouth. In surprise Davis loosened his grip and Mary wrenched free.

“Yu’ll pay fer thet, bitch!” and so saying Davis laid a hard blow across Mary’s face. The force of it knocked her to the ground, blood welling from a split in her lip. When she looked up Davis loomed over her, his face a mask of rage and contempt.

“Yu coulda made it with me. But yu had ta be ungrateful. I ain’t got no room fer ungrateful wimen. But I’m gonna enjoy punishin’ yu fer this here slap.” Then the blows came. At one point Mary thought that she couldn’t possibly feel so much pain. And then there was only darkness and the sweet release from pain and the worries of the world.

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The valley was peaceful, nothing moving except a twittering bird or two. But that was just the problem, there was nothing there, the cattle were gone. Slowly Kit began to scout around the pasture; he was almost to the other side when he saw his father’s horse. The sorrel was stretched on its side by a large rock, the pool of blood showed where the bullets had hit between its eyes and in its sides. For a few moments, Kit sat there looking at the horse. Then he saw the boot sticking out from behind the rock.

It was his father, alone he hadn’t stood a chance, and there were tracks from at least ten horses. Jim Travis had been shot to doll rags. From the multiple bullets in the horse, Kit figured that his father had been riding around the herd when the rustlers opened fire. His father’s rifle was still in the saddle boot and his pistol was still in its holster, which told Kit they had fired without warning. It was an outright and cold-blooded murder.

Kit cast around, committing the tracks of the horses to memory, once he found the horses; he could find the riders. Then he came upon a track that left him seething with rage. The track belonged to a big gray gelding that was always rode by Ben Davis. So Davis had finally decided to simply take what he wanted. Well he was about to find out that wasn’t going to be so easy and that he had just made a big mistake by killing Jim Travis. Kit was going to make sure that it was the last mistake he ever made.

Kit savagely clamped down on the cold burning rage in his gut and turned Blaze back toward Pa. Carefully he loaded the body onto the saddle. Then he slowly began the trip back home, leading Blaze behind him.

Kit saw and smelled the smoke well before he reached the house. And when he came into the yard the barn and the house were both burning well. It was then that he saw Mary. Her body was broken and bloody, covered with bruises from the blows that had ended her life. Kit gazed down at the once beautiful face, the empty green eyes, and matted flame red hair. His prior loss had prepared him for this blow and though he was full of pain and grief he shut it off. Instead he fed his savage rage with thoughts of revenge.

Kit unloaded his father’s body and laid it gently beside his stepmother; then he untacked the horse and turned him out in the corral, which amazingly had been left alone. Then he turned to the shed that had also miraculously survived and found a shovel. He set to work digging a large grave beneath the old cottonwood to the right of the yard. He did not have the time or the energy to dig two separate graves and he knew his parents would not mind. By the time he had finished and made two crosses it was well after dark. Kit lay down the shovel, stumbled into the shed and fell into a dreamless sleep of exhaustion.

Kit awoke at first light, crawled out of the shed to the water trough and plunged his head into the cold water. When he turned back toward the house he walked over to the grave and bowed his head. It was then that he noticed the tracks of small feet leading away from the yard and up the trail toward the trap-line. Up to this point he had been sure that Jim and Alex had died in the fire.

Quickly he set out on their trail not wishing to leave them out in the woods for another night. It was well past mid-day when he finally found them in a hollow nearly five miles up the trail. Alex was curled up asleep under a blanket and Jim was dozing beside her, Pa’s old sharps buffalo gun cradled in his lap. He started awake as Kit came up but lowered the gun when he saw who it was.

Jim didn’t ask about their parents, he had seen the smoke, had guessed that something bad had happened. The fact that it was Kit who had come to get them and not their parents told him all he needed to know. Kit gathered Alex up and bundled her, blankets and all, in his arms. Slowly they made their way back to what was left of their home. That night they slept on beds made from branches in the shed. For a long time Kit lay awake thinking, mulling over their options. Jim and Alex were his first priority; tomorrow he would find the mules, hitch them to the buckboard and take whatever they had into town. There he would leave Jim and Alex with the Wilsons, who were good people and had been friends of his mother. Then he would begin his hunt for the killers. Finally after many hours Kit drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

When Kit awoke the next morning he explained to Jim about the Wilsons and then set off to find the mules. It didn’t take long to find them, they had only wandered down the pasture valley and he had them hitched and ready to go before Alex had even awakened.

Then Kit made his way through the debris that remained from the house. Only a heavy oaken chest was left, charred but relatively unharmed. Kit opened the chest and took out a sack of money, a few hundred dollars that would pay for Jim and Alex’s care. Then came twin ivory handled pistols along with two black gun belts. They were Army Colt .45s and had belonged to his grandfather, a tall, hell-on-wheels Texan. Then he took the extra cartridges for the pistols, made sure the guns were loaded, filled the belts and put the rest in his saddlebags. Then he walked back out and saddled up his horse and tied Blaze to the back of the wagon.

After loading what little they had left into the buckboard Kit placed Jim and Alex on the seat and took up the reins. He clucked to the mules and they set out for town. As the last glimpses of their home faded away the image that stuck in Kit’s mind was that of two wooden crosses beneath a lonely cottonwood tree.

They reached town at dusk, having stopped in the valley so that Kit could commit all the tracks to memory. He now knew the horses of all the rustlers, which was the first step in finding the killers. Kit had planned to reach town when few people would see them arrive and he hit it on the head. There were still people milling around the saloons and hotel but luckily the Wilsons lived on the edge of town at the far end from the saloons. Mrs. Wilson answered the door, took one look at the dusty, exhausted children, and called for her husband. Jay Wilson was a tall, stout man with gray-flecked brown hair and a silver beard. His kind brown eyes shown with worry as he approached the Travis wagon. After Jim and Alex had been safely tucked away in bed and the horses taken care of, Kit settled down to talk with Wilson and his wife.

“What happened, son? Whar’s yore Ma and Pa?” Wilson asked.

“Rustlers took our herd and killed Pa ‘round mid-day two days ago. I got home and found the house and barn burning and Mary layin’ in front a' the house. She’d been beaten ta death. Then I went ta the shed and got a shovel and buried ‘em ‘neath the old cottonwood. Then I made some crosses and by thet time it was past dark.

“At first I thought Jim and Alex had died in the house when it was set on fire but the next morning I stumbled onto their tracks. Mary musta had time ta get ‘em outta thar ‘fore the riders got thar. So I followed the trail and found ‘em several hours later. Brought ‘em home and we slept in the shed. I just laid awake and planned out what ta do. I’d be very obliged if yu’d keep them kids fer me. They ain’t got nowheres else ta go.”

“Of course we’ll keep them!” Mrs. Wilson, a kindly woman with gray-streaked blond hair said. “Honestly, how could you think we’d turn them away!” she added, her blue eyes flashing.

“Thank yu, Ma’am. I got some money ta leave with yu fer their care. After all I don’t want it said that we Travis’ cain’t take car of our own. I’ll be goin’ after the killers in the mornin’ and I wanted ta make shore they’d be well taken care of.” Kit replied gratefully.

“Well now, it’s a horrible thing thet’s happened, Kit. But yu can’t just go running across the country looking fer men yu’ve never seen. Let the law handle it, after all how are yu gonna find ‘em if yu don’t know who they are? ‘Sides they’ll out number yu at least ten to one!” Wilson reasoned.

“I know who did it, Mr. Wilson. And the law ain’t gonna do nothing ‘bout ‘em and I ain’t gonna let ‘em git off Scott free, ‘specially after what they done ta Mary!” Kit said quietly.

“I thought yu never saw them?”

“I didn’t, but I saw their tracks. One of the hawses is thet big gray Ben Davis rides. And the man who killed Mary was Ben Davis.”

Wilson was silent; he was down right scared. Ben Davis was the fastest man with a gun around town and he was brother to the biggest, wealthiest and most powerful man in the area, Kyle Davis. Not only that, Ben was mean, worse than a hydrophoby skunk crossed with a rattler.

“Now…Now…boy! Yu can’t be serious! Yu can’t accuse Ben Davis of this. He’d kill yu!” Wilson stammered when he had recovered the use of his tongue.

“Tomorrow I’m gonna kill me a Davis. And anyone who gets in my way better make his peace with the Lord ‘cause I ain’t in a chattin’ mood!” Wilson was taken back at the cold fire in the azure eyes. He suddenly remembered the stories he’d heard about Kit’s grandfather, Bloody Bill Travis.

“Boy, Kyle Davis will never let you get out of town alive if you kill his brother. And thet’s providin’ yore still alive after the showdown. Davis never goes anywhere without at least five men with him.” Wilson said solemnly.

“When I finish what I mean ta do Kyle Davis won’t be in a position to worry about it.” Kit replied with soft menace.

And with that Kit rose and stalked off to the barn where he was going to sleep, close to his horse and outfit.

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