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You think it's a game, don't you? A contest between gentlemen. You ever kill a man, Crowe? You're a cowman. You carry a side-gun for protection. Snakes. You learn to use it sometimes fairly well. Sometimes you become really good. But you're still a cowman.

Crowe looked at cattle. It was a few hundred head of young ones, which made it more difficult to herd in a straight line. The ride down from Bornite Creek had taken longer than expected, and it was going to get dark. They were approaching the heart of the Bronson territory, but there were still a few more hours to go.

Crowe spurred his horse Bolt to get to the other flank to keep the animals together. He was working the cattle with his friend Jason Bronson, and Hitchins who worked as the cook on the cattle drives, but in the summer helped out as a cowboy.

Things were going alright, even if it wasn’t the easiest herding ever done thanks to the young cattle. There was enough work to keep him entertained but not enough to make him feel he was trying to control chaos itself, and riding along with Bronson and Hitchins wasn’t bad at all. Still, as nice as it was, it was getting late and it wouldn’t be wise to stay in the open for one more night if there was no need for it.

C’mon Bolt, let’s speed things up – he said, patting the side of Bolt’s neck – We’re almost home

-Whooahh, steady! Steady!, Jason held the reins of his thoroughbred. He was an accomplished rider, but the rocky slope he was descending could be treacherous in the dark. He paused to check that Crowe was doing OK guiding the herd on the other side.

Jason couldn´t help cursing when he remembered what had happened the night before last. Up on Bornite, some Mexicans have stolen from them again. Now they were nine animals short. He had wanted to follow the tracks, but his father´s orders were clear.

And that´s why we hired Choctaw and Dekker.

Vicent´s son approached Crowe on horseback. –Lookin´OK. They´ll be movin´ downhill now all the way to the water. And then tomorrow we ought to start branding ´em with the B, I reckon.

The young mavericks that had been stolen did not have the Bronson´s mark yet. Not that it mattered much. It was one thing what the Law said. And another how Justice worked in Sabbath. Everyone knew these lands were Bronson territory.

-Tonite I´ll be tellin´ pa´ about the bloody Mexs, don´t ya worry Crowe. They got it comin´, he said and spat out his tobacco. –Hey, I nearly forgot!, he said more relaxed. -Tomorrow ya gonna win that shootin´ contest, eh?

Every few weeks, some of the cowboys got together to test their speed and accuracy with the gun. Jason never took part though, but he liked to see Crowe show his skill. And if all went well, tomorrow he´d be facing Mr. Gun Hand himself, the cocky Choctaw Lee.

Crowe looked at Jason as he approached, thinking he probably hadn’t stopped thinking about that nine heads lost to some softy who had stolen to the Bronson family, a road agent who clearly did not had half a brain to warn him about the dangers of stealing to Vincent Bronson. Honestly, he was sour on that kind of spooney fellows. But even as fagged out as he was, he knew he should not spend two minutes thinking about such things. There was no point in doing it.

Surprisingly, Jason was concerned about branching instead of the thief. He nodded, relieved that his friend wasn’t going to go on a suicide solo mission to get the heads back on pure pride and even smiled a little when he told him that he was going to tell his dad about it. Good, he’s not getting in the middle of the fuss.

Someone’s gotta show to that Choctaw guy that he’s being too big for his britches. – he answered. – He’s going to flat out, you’ll see. He's just an old fogy.

No matter how good you were, being that goddamn cocky was never a right. And Crowe just hated people who thought of themselves as better than the rest. 

–Don´t lean too hard on him, Crowe, Jason replied smiling. -Pa pays  him plenty ´cause he´s good with a gun!

And because Choctaw and Dekker are ready to kill a man if it comes right down to it, he thought to himself.

Jason saw a rider approaching from the direction of the main Bronson building. –It´s Brimley, he´s waving for me to go with him. Ya ought take ´em heads to the ranch, I´ll talk to you later.

Jason rode to meet the veteran cowboy Brimley, who had gotten up few ladders nowadays since Vernon Adams was busy with his own ranch.

It was already dark when Crowe was finished herding the animals from the rocky hills to where Hitchins was waiting. He was exhausted when he finally headed back riding carefully on the narrow path that was not used often. Suddenly he was a shadow moving to his right, on the top of the hill. He moved closer to have a better look. There was a man standing next to a handful of crosses. The boss himself, Vincent Bronson. It was then Crowe remembered the place. It was the Bronson family cemetery.

The cattle baron stood in front of the grave of his brother Jacob. Together they had fought of the Comanche Indians and laid foundation of what he had today. Whenever he was feeling the burden of the years on him, or that of life in general, he found the peace and wisdom up here, in this place. A place to get away from all the noise and to listen to his heart.

He heard Crowe approaching, and greeted him. –What are you doing out here, Crowe?, he asked a bit surprised when the youngster was down from his horse. Then he looked at him again and smiled, and continued with a softer tone. –You and my son are about the same age, aren´t you? He just told me about the trouble you had on the trail.

Out of respect, Crowe got down from his horse, and after hearing his boss greet him, he approached. He wouldn’t have greeted him if he didn’t want him to come nearer. Crowe could understand talking to the dead. Even if they didn’t answer with words, some memories would come back and the silence would soothe the most troubled soul. Talking with the dead was easy and peaceful, and their advice was almost every time wisest than the ones from the living.

That we are, sir. – he answered, almost whispering, after taking off his hat as a sign of respect towards Vincent Bronson’s dead brother.  

Bronson nodded. -Ever been up here before?, he asked and looked at the plain wooden cross again. He did not think Crowe had been. Not that it mattered. This was considered a private place. And it made Vincent Bronson feel vulnerable. And alive. He had 10,000 head of good cows, large valleys of sweet grass and more money in the bank than most men would see in their whole lives. All that had not come easy. Thirty years of sweat and blood was put into it.

-On this high ground, he said to Crowe, -you can see the whole valley on a clear day, from the sierras to white wolf pass. Now, there was the old Comanche camp. We... we broke 'em there. Harvey and me and my brothers. Brother Jacob died there.

A distant coyote howl accompanied Vincent Bronson´s words. The man kept talking...

-They were fine people, the Comanches. Don't ever listen to any talk that runs down an Indian. We buried brother Jacob here and...my other brother Aaron beside him. They'd had enough of guns and killing. The dead don't have much.

Bronson sighed.

-Crowe, did you ever feel the world turn beneath your feet?, he asked suddenly. And added: -today, somethin´ happened in Sabbath, ya know? Somethin´ that could be hazardous if not taken care of in the right way.

Crowe shook his head, even though Bronson didn’t look at him. He was a few steps behind, but somehow he knew he would know the answer. Being here made him think of every time Death had paid a visit to his loved ones, therefore, making him feel uncomfortable and really uneasy. He wished he could just leave. But there was something in the air, something that made him stay. Maybe he was just curious, maybe not. Either way, he stayed.  He stayed and look right at the wooden cross, and waited for something to happen. And then, something did.

Unlike any memory he had of Vincent Bronson, the old man started talking about his past. Specifically, about his brothers Jacob  and Aaron. About the Comanches too. Maybe it was the old age taking its toll, but he appeared to be as blue as you could be. Hell, he wished he had a whiskey to share with the man.

What do ya mean? – he replied, trying to intervene as less as possible. 

-Huh, what?, Bronson replied and looked at Crowe for a second as if he had been talking to himself instead of him. Maybe he had. –Remember the cattle drive last spring? You started it, but ya didn´t go to Fort Worth with the rest. Well, on our way back we hit a small town called Bannock. The boys had a bit of fun. We didn´t know it then, but an old man took a bullet, by accident. We thought it was nothing but a lot of broken glass, but...seems now it's a bit more. There's a lawman the name of Maddox in Sabbath. Figures to take us back and stand trial. He carries this list. Me, Harv, Hurd, Vern, Sinta, Corman, Choctaw and Jack. And he looks like the kind that ain´t gonna bend easily.

Eight names that were all familiar to Crowe. Vincent Bronson allowed the news to sink in before continuing.

-We had a meeting tonight. Everyone on that list. I wanna play this right. Make it good with this lawman. I ain´t gonna let all this to drop for some dumb gunplay. All we have worked for, all the sacrifices we´ve made…

He sighed. That surely wasn’t a pretty picture. But still, it was only one dead body, and even though it wasn’t the brightest idea to go away without checking the surroundings, it was too late to think about that. So, Maddox was his name. He wondered if Bronson was thinking in a bribe or in a more permanent silence, but given the place he was standing… Either way, he wanted to check.

What are we gonna do about him? – he asked right away. 

-I want to try to deal with him, son, Vincent replied. He liked Crowe´s attitude. And loyalty. The youngster had not been in Bannock, but he was still one of the Bronson brand. And if you messed with one of Bronson´s men, everyone got involved. That was the way it had been with Jacob and Aaron.

-I ain´t gonna ride into Sabbath to gun him down. Those days are gone. Times ´ve changed, there are other ways, he said repeating the words he had spoken in the meeting earlier. –Look, Crowe. There´s somethin´ you ought to do for me. First, tomorrow speak to Choctaw and Jack. I´ve heard you have this shooting competition going. After that, just tell ´em to do what needs to be done to sort out the cattle thieves. They´ll know what to do. Vincent´s voice was cold and harsh. He had given enough warning to the bloody Mexicans. Now it was time for them to be punished. –Mexs is one thing, a lawman is another matter. I don´t want my gun hands nowhere near Sabbath in the next few days. I´ve asked Jace and Harv to ride to town tomorrow. To set up a meeting. But I want you go to also. And do the talkin´. You´re not on that damn list like Harv, and Jason is a hto head. You go, they can wait outside town. See if you can find out more about this Maddox. What he´s after. Ori f the dead man was his kin or something. See if there is chance to set up a meeting. I want to deal with him directly. Go to see Ryan first, he´ll know more. And check on Sinta, she was arrested by Maddox.

It was common knowledge that the local sheriff “Cotton” Ryan was on the Bronson pay roll.

Crowe stared at him as he talk. He was pleasantly surprised, thinking that every choice seemed reasonable yet not weak. He would be happy to tell those two to deal with the Mexs, even though he would prefer not to talk with them at all. Hell, he wish he could take care of the problem himself. But even though his skill with a gun was undeniable, he understood that he had something that those fellas didn't. He could have a chat without tryin' to kill everyone in the room. 

No problem, boss. I'll talk to Cotton, see what I can find out. Maybe he can give me a hit on what to say and what no to say in front of that Maddox guy. Any message for Sinta? 

-Just tell her we´re backin´ her up, to take it calm. Ya know, I could have her out in a blink of an eye if I told Ryan. But I ain´t gonna. I wanna play this my way, and talk to Maddox first. I reckon he ought to listen. Bronson put his hat back on. –You best be getting back down, son.