It had grown warmer as they had moved south along the mountains. Still cold at night, but they had picked up some wool blankets at the trading post, and Lottie had sewn pullover coats for all of them as they moved down into the territory belonging to Mexico.

There. He heard a thump, then a scream.

“You two stay here,” he called softly to Lottie. “And I mean stay here. I’ll be back.”

He slid to the left where there was a thin brush line and followed it down to the hut. The building did not have a window, which was good, because the brush line was sparse scrub oak and the goats had long before stripped away the leaves.

Now Francis was barely concealed, and ran quickly, trying to keep his moccasins quiet.

He held himself still at the side of the hut, listening. Again, a muffled sound. He checked the cap on his rifle, cocked it, and moved to the side of the door.

He was five feet from the door when he noted that the saddle on the horse had a large us stamped on the sides, and the horse had the same brand on its shoulder. It was a United States Cavalry mount. Half a question formed in his mind—what was a United States Cavalry mount doing in Mexican territory?—when the door blew open and a young woman ran out, a large man behind her. He grabbed her shoulders.

“Get back in here!”

Half a second: Her eyes were wide with terror; she had a scuff on her face where she’d been hit. The man’s blue uniform shirt was ripped. He had a bloody scratch on his cheek. He was wearing a military belt with a flap-covered holster, and he saw Francis, threw the woman aside, and clawed at the holster.

“Wait …,” Francis got out, then saw the flap of the holster come up, the hand catch the butt of the revolver, the barrel swing toward him as the man cocked it, an explosion of smoke and noise.

Francis felt the ball cut his cheek and burn past and he shot from the hip. His rifle recoiled in his hands and he saw the ball strike the man high in the chest. He saw everything: a little puff of dust from the blue shirt as the ball hit; no blood, but dust, and then the man went backward and down to a sitting position. He looked up at Francis and said, “You’ve killed me,” and settled on his back slowly and died.

All in three seconds. Francis stood in silent horror. He felt the sun on his back, the terrified woman standing in front of him, the goats bleating nearby, the smoke from the shots drifting off to the side. He stood there and knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

He had killed a man.

Francis Tucket’s exciting adventures
are all available from Yearling Books!

Mr. Tucket