were.  After a breakfast of biscuits, meat, and potoatoes, the three drank their coffee.  Ben spoke, “Oss, you stay there. Sam will go with me to St. Joe.”

This time Sam was on a bay horse belonging to Oss.  Riding to St. Joe, Arkansas, Ben informed Sam that everyone gave the men he was to meet all the respect due a men who is able to keep his town safe in the middle of the roughest breed of men the west had ever known.

George Sitton, also known as the town marshal, was cutting wood when he saw the men ride up to his yard.  George’s large frame bent at this waist as he reached for short round logs to split for cooking wood.  When he raised up, Sam could see he was a man in his middle sixties.  Ben’s uncle retained a serious facial expression as he said, “Howdy Ben, where’s Oss?”

George could see s stranger riding Oss’s horse.  Ben introduced Sam to George.  George realized Ben might bring some of his unwholesome friends into town.  He had warned those two brothers about giving him any trouble.  They were off half of the time with the James, Youngers, and the Daltons.

The kitchen door opened and Valley came outside to get some wood.  She was glad to see Ben and said hello to him.  It had been almost a year since Ben or Oss had come to se them.  The young man with Ben took her attention.  She asked Ben if he was coming to the exhibition tomorrow night.  Ben said he would think about it.  The pretty girl smiled at Sam as she took an armload of wood into the house.

Ben asked George if he had heard or seen of the Coles in these parts.  Ben knew there was a price on Henry Cole’s head for holding up a bank in Dover.

George told him that Henry was killed over on the Arkansas River.  Old Man Wasson made him a coffin when Uncle Wes Moulder found his body.  It had been washed up on a sandbar.  They got the ring off his finger to prove it was he.  George continued, “Someone killed John Cole in a shootout down around Campbell.  Some of the James’ gange was killed at the upper end of Frank Downey’s place.”

On the way back to the cabin, Sam told Ben he felt like he ought to get back to Harrison.  Ben said, “Sam, we need you to ride a horse in the horse race this spring.  Look, you don’t have to win.  Old Man Treadwell is from Kentucky and he thinks a jockey can ride big Black and win the race.  Sam, we will get you introduced to Treadwell as a jockey.  We will get William Jinnerson to take bets on the Black.  Oss will be riding a yellow more, we keep over on Cave Creek.”

Spring came officially on the first Saturday in April in the Buffalo River Valley.  New life sprang foth after the soft rains spread over the hills.  Sam was impatient as he lay on the straw bed in the leaky cabin.  Each drop of rain that hit the dishpan sounded like drums in his ears.  He recalled the trip to St. Joe and remembered Marshal Sitton’s pretty daughter, Valley.  Maybe she would be at the track.  Sam would like to win, but Ben said not to push the horse.  He was an honest man, even if he was a gambler with shady friends.  He made up his mind up to ride the Black horse as best he could.

There was more excitement around the hills then there had been in a long time.  At two, the sun was shining and lazy, white clouds dotted the sky.  The horses were lined up side by side at the starting line.  Every rider was listening for the gunshot.

At the sound of the gun, the horses bolted down the track.  Within seconds, the Black took the lead.  The Black stayed ahead of the yellow mare half way around the track.  Then the yellow mare gained on the Black and moved ahead of the Black.