The Texans hold an uneasy truce with the Americans of Boulder, due mostly to the relationship between Richard Large and Deadeye Sam. Boulder leaves the Texans alone, and in turn, the Texans don't harass the coaches that roll between Phoenix and Boulder on regular routes.

Our friend here has been hitting those coaches. They carry gold - yeah I know it's not much John, don't interrupt. These coaches are predictable, and they also carry goods. We're going to hit one, and thanks to John, it'll be guarded.

Margaret couldn't see a damned thing down on the flats, but Seen insisted the coaches were there. Two of them, in fact. Like every faction in this hot, desolate hell, the Americans had their own kit and colors, and their blue shirts should have made them easy to spot. At this range, she couldn't tell which of those dust clouds came from a whirlwind and which from a stagecoach.

She lay at the crest of a hill with Seen and John, overlooking the eastern edge of the great basin. The road wound through the cacti below and skirted the edge of the hill to her left. Because of the way the road curved, and the high hill on which they waited, it was impossible to see around that turn. There was plenty of cover on this side of the road as well - large boulders littered the roadside - making this the perfect spot for ambushing a stagecoach.

"Can you see them?" Margaret asked the larger Navajo, John Bearcat.

John grunted, but nodded. "Racial ability," he said. "Not all of them are useless."

Margaret pushed back from the top of the hill and scooted down far enough that she could sit up without being seen from out on the flats. Seen slid down beside her, rubbing his eyes. "You ready for this?" she asked him.

"Ready enough." Seen drew his revolver.

"How many soldiers?"

"Just four."

"No problem," John said.

"Alright, you all know the plan." She glanced down the hill at Wayne, who grinned while stabbing a cactus. "Well you two anyway. Let's get in position."

Margaret jogged down the hill. She checked Seen's position - he was back at the top of the hill, watching - and John's, who waited halfway down the slope with his Gatling gun. "You ready, Wayne?"

"Oh boy." Wayne flashed his knife.

Wonderful. A rock skittered down the hill - Seen's signal. Those coaches must be going fast. Margaret drew her revolver and crouched behind a boulder. "Get out there, Wayne."

"Oh boy," the old man said, and darted out onto the road.

Four men in blue uniforms thundered around the curve on white horses, great billows of dust rising off the road around them. Two stagecoaches followed them, pulled by two horses each. The riders would have to see Wayne immediately. Margaret had positioned them so that the Americans would have plenty of time to rein up. Of course, they might trample Wayne anyway. If that risk had occurred to the old prospector, it didn't seem to damper his enthusiasm.

The brakes on the coaches squealed, throwing sparks off the steel-shod tires, and the horses snorted as the drivers pulled hard on their reins. The coaches stopped askance, bumping into their horses and making them dance. The soldiers circled Wayne.

One of them, an offer, gestured with a revolver in his hand. Margaret couldn't hear what he said, but she heard Wayne's reply nice and loud.

"Oh boy!" Wayne yelled, and leapt. An old man shouldn't be that spry. The prospector's knife flashed in the sun and the officer's horse screamed.

Margaret turned her attention to the coaches. It was time for her to move. She angled toward the rear coach, keeping low. There was little chance that the soldiers would spot her while they were occupied with Wayne, but just in case, she wanted some cover between herself and them.

She paused behind a boulder, near the rear wagon. The driver had his gun out, and his attention on the scuffle up ahead. Margaret laid her arm across the the rock to steady her aim. On the other side of the road, she spotted Seen creeping out from cover. What the hell was he doing? He was supposed to stay on the hill while Margaret got the coach -

An explosion behind her threw Margaret to the ground. She covered her head to protect herself from the shower of dirt and small rocks that followed. When she looked back, Wayne was gone. He'd left a small crater. Bits of gore lay scattered about, shimmering as their owner's recall runes activated.

The driver of the rear wagon had only raised his arm against the blast, and recovering quickly, he pointed his gun at Seen. Seen picked himself out the dirt, but before Margaret could warn him, the doors of the lead coach burst open and five soldiers poured out. Margaret pressed herself against her cover. They hadn't seen her, but Seen was caught wide open. The driver shot him. Seen's head jerked back, and he collapsed, completely limp.

Fucking useless indian. She had to get that driver, or he would spot her coming, raise the alarm, and she'd have five soldiers to contend with. The driver was looking up at the hill. The soldiers were spreading out, heading toward the crater Wayne had left in the road, ignoring Seen's body as it shimmered and vanished. In a moment they would be past her. Also in a moment, the chance for John Bearcat to kill them all together with his Gatling gun would pass.

The driver of the rear coach walked his horses backwards, looking perhaps to turn around and go back the way they had come. It had to be now, before that driver whipped his horses into a gallop. "Now, John!" she shouted. Those five soldiers turned toward her immediately. She ducked behind the rock as shots ricocheted off. She knew she had only moments before the Americans flanked her, and if she dared to look over the rock she'd find two or three of them with rifles already trained on her position.

On the hill, John roared, and the racouse noise of his Gatling gun joined the fray. Now the Americans ran for cover. John's assault tore through the lead coach, striking the soldiers and pulverizing flesh into spurts of red gore. The driver of the rear coach whipped his horse, and Margaret ran for it. She flung herself on the back of the coach. John ran down the hill, and she reached out, one hand clutching the frame of the coach, and caught his arm with the other. He latched on beside her.

The coach accelerated quickly. Margaret hauled herself onto the top. If this coach was also full of soldiers, they would have already come out. The driver looked back and fired. Margaret ducked, John grunted, and Margaret shot the driver's jaw off. He fell sideways and rolled off the bench, and the coach lurched as the wheels crushed him. That was it, they'd done it. The wagon bounced violently as the horses left the road, flying over the brush and brambles that dotted the flats.

"I got it," Margaret said, shouting over the sound of the wagon. "Get inside and make sure the cargo is there."

John Bearcat nodded and, slinging his Gatling gun onto his back, lowered himself over the side of the coach.

Margaret settled on to the driver's bench and snatched up the reins. James Sniper was absolutely mad, but maybe this plan of his would work after all. This hadn't all gone to plan, but they had their prize. She pulled the horses back toward the road.

John grunted behind her.

"Is it all there?" she asked. She glanced over her shoulder.

Richard Large, moderator and leader of the Texan posse, towered over her. He grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off the bench. Margaret drew her revolver and shot him twice at point blank rank. Richard laughed and backhanded her with his free hand, sending her gun flying. He was a behemoth, a monster bulging with muscles and hate, and in love with his own power. Margaret grabbed his arm, clawing at him as his fingers crushed her. She kicked him, which had as much affect on him as her gun shots.

Her vision faded, turned black, but lasted long enough for her to see him raise his gun. She felt the cold barrel against her temple and heard the shot, but never felt the pain.