Sanctuary                  
Copyright (c) 1995, Ed Davis         
All rights reserved




                                     SANCTUARY
                                     by Ed Davis


   Jacob Mann listened to the squeak of his rubber soled boots on the
wet grass, as he walked across the dew dampened meadow.  His progress
was marked by the dark trail winding out behind him, contrasting with
the pale green of the field.  He looked anxiously westward again, for
the third time in the last half-hour.  What had been a dark band on the
horizon, shortly after sun rise, had become a towering line of
thunderstorms.  The black wall of angrily churning clouds was moving
closer and gaining intensity.  It seemed to Jacob, exposed in the wide
meadow, that the storm was chasing him.  He knew he would soon feel the
drenching rain and hammering fury of the winds driving the gigantic
mass of evil looking clouds.  He was more eager than before to find
some sanctuary, before the full power of the storm broke over him.
   As he watched, tongues of lightning licked out of the high blackness
and reached tentatively downward to the darkening ground.  Lines of
falling rain streaked the diminishing space between the black clouds
and the only slightly lighter earth below.  The entire western panorama
was filled with the onrushing weather front.
   He turned eastward again, toward his destination on the Natchez
Trace, and lengthened his stride.  The increased tempo of his steps and
the longer strides ate into the distance separating him from a grove of
trees ahead.  The frown growing to maturity on his face eased, and
lessened the lines on his forehead, as he spotted the grove.  From the
vantage point of a slight rise in the rolling field, he saw the
sheltering trees and knew safety was near.  He allowed a smile to lift
the corners of his mouth.  That sure looks better than this wide open
field, he thought.  A little luck and I'll beat that storm.
   His feet fell into their accustomed pattern and he once again moved
with the comfortable rhythm of the practiced walker.  Behind him, the
storm moved relentlessly closer.  More jagged zigzags of lightning
darted out of the clouds, slashing into the ground now, creating a
brilliant, flashing display for the thunder's counterpoint.  The
symphony of rumbling bass sounds washed over the solitary figure, as he
reached the edge of the oak and pine trees fringing a small stream.
   He entered the sheltering canopy of the trees, without seeing a
second line of storms approaching from the east.  The second front was
as massive as the line worrying Jacob, and was on a collision course
with the first front.
   Jacob Mann was about to be the butt of one of Fate's occasional
jokes.  Within the limited security of the trees, he was blissfully
unaware the two storms would meet directly over the grove and that
their meeting would have a dramatic impact on his life.
   His concern, for the moment, was a more immediate one.  He was
worried that a lightning struck tree would fall and injure or kill him.
He searched the area before him for some protection from that final
danger.  There...!  He thought, there under that rocky ledge.  He
grinned, as he leapt across the small stream and scrambled up the
opposite bank.  The thick, rocky outcrop covered a small cave.
"Perfect," he exclaimed, aloud, climbing the slight incline and
admiring the snug haven.  Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he felt
he had seen the little cave before.  He shook the thought from his mind
and knelt to remove the few small stones dotting the dirt floor.  He
pushed his pack into the shelter and slithered, on his stomach, into
the waiting cave.  He was certain the thick granite over his head would
keep him safe while he waited out the storm.  He lay his head on his
folded arms and waited.  A fresh burst of thunder and the storm's
preliminary winds crashed against his snug shelter.
   The thunder sounded like it came from the east, he mused.  What the
...?  His thoughts were interrupted suddenly, as the storms collided.
The combined power of the opposing cloud banks became a black maelstrom
of violence.
   Light vanished.
   The shock wave from the collision rocked the forest and shook the
ground.  The air changed, from a friendly, breathable gas; into an
eerie, ozone flavored, swirling mass.
   Jacob was suddenly pushed into the soft dirt of the cave floor.
Without light, his world became a place of sound, smell, and textures.
The harsh crackle and evil hiss, of the static laden air, gave him
gooseflesh and stood the hair erect on his head.  The pungent tang of
the ozone and the musky scent of the raw earth filled his nostrils.  A
small stone, which escaped his hasty cleaning of the cave, dug into his
chest.  He felt the strap of his pack in his clenched fist.  He lived,
suddenly, in a small world.
   High over his head, a gigantic bolt of lightning streaked from the
enmeshed storms.  An instant later, the jagged blade of light knifed
through the forest and into the earth, fifty feet from the entrance to
the cave.  Jacob saw the brilliance through his clenched eyelids and
started to flinch away from the dazzling light and the heat.  His
reflex action halted when the shock wave stunned him.  He did not hear
the terrible thunder.
   His limp body, in the hands of Fate now, moved with the wave of
turbulence.  He clutched his pack as he was expelled from his earthen
womb, rolling and sliding down the incline, finally coming to rest
against a small tree.
   A second bolt of lightning struck.  This bolt was more powerful than
the first and struck the rocky ledge over the cave.  The granite slab,
larger than a small house, was reduced to pebbles and dust.  The
resulting blast threw Jacob around the small tree, toward his destiny.
    The afternoon sun pierced the green canopy over the inert form of
the young man and dappled the ground with patches of light.  One beam
fell on his face, relaxed and youthful in repose.  His chest rose and
fell, as his body automatically maintained itself.  His hand still
clutched his travel worn pack.  He slipped gently from his comatose
state into the healing balm of sleep.  With sleep came dreams.  Dreams
of his early life and of two old portraits.
   As always, the focus of his recurring dream was the portraits of his
great grandparents.  Although he had never met them, their oil painted
images had soothed and comforted him through his early years.  They
both died on the day he was born.  She died when the news of her
husband's death was delivered.  Romantics claimed her heart had broken.
Doctors present,  being more clinical, decided her heart had simply
failed.  It always pleased Jacob to believe the romantic explanation.
He felt a special closeness to Jacob I, the family patriarch, even
though they never met.  His closeness grew from stories that had been
repeated to him, from the old portraits, and from some inner sense that
the aged man was somehow special.
   The huge oil paintings showed a strong jawed, grizzled, bear of a
man and his doe eyed wife.  She had been captured on canvas thirty
years before her husband would consent to pose.
   Zoe was in her late twenties, at the height of her beauty, when she
was frozen forever on the canvas.  Her heart shaped face, framed by
long, golden brown hair, seemed lighted from within, by the light
glowing through her liquid, brown eyes.  Sensuality and a joy of life
showed in her smiling, full lips.  Altogether, her image represented
the most appealing woman Jacob had ever seen.
   Jacob I and the young man, lying on the green forest floor in
Tennessee, had more in common than their names.  Jacob Mann IV, like
the first Jacob was a solitary person.  He chose not to live in the
high energy, high technology world of his birth.  Instead, he opted for
the life of a wanderer.  He had spent he last three years searching for
a way of life that was gentler on his mind and soul.  He had decided
this trip back to the mountains of Tennessee would be his last as a
visitor.  He planned to find a way to stay this time, his wandering was
finished.  It was amusing to the young Jacob that his great grandfather
left Tennessee to settle in New Orleans, now his return to the hills
would complete the cycle.
   In 1887, Jacob Mann arrived in New Orleans with his wife Zoe and two
travel worn freight wagons.  The ten horses pulling the wagons and some
furs were their only source of money.  Within another year, Jacob Mann
II was born to the young couple, and Zoe left the company books to her
assistant to make a home for her two Jacobs.  As the business
prospered, the happy family moved into their newly built, small home,
where they lived their uncluttered lives, isolated from the bustle of
New Orleans.
    The constantly changing position of the sun sent light beams through
the forest's crown by different pathways.  One newly born beam fell on
Jacob's closed eyelids and ended his dreams.
   As he returned to the world, he struggled for some comprehension of
his situation.  His last memory was of a thunderstorm, a snug, secure
cave, and a shocking blaze of light.  Now he found himself warm and
dry, on a carpet of green grass.  He looked slowly around, looking for
some familiar object, as he tested his body to see if it still worked.
He saw the rock ledge, a hundred feet away, and sat up shakily.  He
rested his still spinning head on his knees. That was one hell of a
storm, he thought.  I must have been out for hours.  The sun is getting
close to setting.
   Clear vision returned slowly and he once again looked at his
surroundings.  The sky, seen through the leafy canopy, was blue; the
grass under him was green; and somehow, he had moved out of the cave,
to where he awakened.  Crazy, he thought, as he tested his legs.  They
worked, and he pulled his pack to it's accustomed place against his
back.  Beginning to feel normal, he left the quiet gathering of trees,
with a silent thank you for the protection he could not remember.
Sparkling sunlight made the grass ahead seem somehow greener than he
remembered.  He looked across the wide expanse of the field and
searched for his constant landmark, I-40, with it's twin concrete
strips.
   His heart skipped a beat, as his eyes scanned the grassy slope.  It
wasn't there.  It wasn't hidden or out of sight.  The highway was not
there.  He had entered the grove with the two concrete lines marking
the earth, like parallel arrows, pointing northeast.  Now, the western
face of the Highland Rim was as pristine as it must have been before
man ever walked on the continent.
   Jacob swiveled his head to the only other permanent landmark he
knew, a bald mountain peak that stood on the northwest edge of the
Trace.  The peak was there, but the summit was no longer bald.  The
mountain was where it was supposed to be, it was just covered with
trees.
   What the hell?  This is insane.  Roads don't vanish!  Trees don't
grow like that!  Not in just a few hours.  He knew the mountain was the
landmark he had been using for a full day.  The granite boulders were
there, peeking out of the trees.  The boulders were comforting, in
their familiarity, but where did those trees come from?  That mountain
burned years ago.
   Without his usual confidence, he moved toward the no longer bald
peak, shaking his head in silent disbelief.  The warm sunshine and the
crisp air soon restored his resilient body, but his confused mind
remained troubled.  He began a mental inventory of the last three days,
in an effort to bring some order to the clutter of confusion in his
mind.
   He had left Memphis with fresh supplies and several hundred dollars,
from his temporary freight loading job.  The east bound journey had
paralleled I-40, which rises gradually from the Mississippi River to
the Western Highland Rim of Tennessee's western mountains.  He marveled
again at the changes in the vegetation, as low land lushness gave way
to the sparser and hardier mountain varieties.  He enjoyed living among
the creatures and plants of the highlands.  Deer, bears, and a myriad
of mammals thrived in the cool, clean air.  That same air revitalized
him, each time he returned.
   He lived among the creatures as the American Indian lived centuries
before.  He hunted only for food and left each camp as he found it.
The signs of his passing were faint and, in a few days, even the
pressed down grasses of his bedding place were once again standing
tall.  He had a special reverence for the mountains, as the Indians
had, and almost felt that the peaks were sacred.
   He carried a slingshot for hunting, but usually set snares for the
small game that was his principal food supply.  His only concession to
the fact that he lived in a world where the most dangerous animal was
man, was a Browning nine millimeter, automatic pistol.  His expert
marksmanship was sufficient to fill his cookpot and maintain his
safety.
   Each sunset found him comfortably snug in his simple camp.  A small
fire, his simple cook kit, and a down filled sleeping bag met his
needs.  The night sounds were his lullaby, and the sun's early rays
were his alarm.  He followed that same familiar pattern for three days
and nights.  The fourth day dawned, with only the threat of
thunderstorms to mar the perfection of the new day.
   Jacob liked things to fit their normal patterns.  He knew highways
didn't vanish, and mountains didn't grow forested tops in a few hours.
He was troubled, as he walked across the last stretch of the meadow,
struggling for some understanding of his situation.  Ahead, the base of
the newly crowned mountain pushed into the sky, as the sun began to
caress the western horizon.
   As he entered the forest, the sun's last crescent fell to it's
evening repose.  Twilight was short lived and the confused traveler
found himself quickly wrapped in a blanket of darkness.  He seldom
walked in the dark, there were too many chances for a twisted ankle or
a broken leg.  Tonight, however, he wanted to reach his destination.
He wanted the security of a familiar place to sleep and to collect his
senses.  He decided to circle the base of the mountain instead of
climbing to the state park that lay on the opposite slope.  His
preplanned destination was three miles away, alongside the old Natchez
Trace.  He liked camping along the old wilderness trail.  More than a
hundred years earlier the rights of passage, through what had been
Indian lands, had been arranged to provide safe passage for travelers.
Few people visited the Trace, now.  They preferred the easier access
and comfortable camping available at the state park.
   His night vision soon allowed a slow but steady pace through the
tall trees. He was feeling more confident, as the moon broke the
horizon.  He moved more rapidly with the added light from the nearly
full moon.  Maybe, he thought, all this will make sense tomorrow.
   Within an hour, his light sensitive eyes detected a faint glow in
the trees ahead.  Must be a camp fire, he thought.  He began descending
a rocky hill and slowed his pace again.  No twisted ankles, he mused.
He kept his attention on the rocks under his feet, but made certain the
yellow-red glow of the fire didn't vanish.  At the base of the slope,
he thought he heard voices.  He patted the pocket holding his pistol
and reassured himself he still had the weapon.  A few minutes later,
the voices from the distant, orange glow became clear.  Someone
camping?  They picked my spot; must be a big group.  They've got a big
fire, his thoughts rambled, as he walked the last few yards, before he
could observe the camp and paused.
   "Hello, the camp," he called.  He waited, as the voices stopped
abruptly.  He was ready to move back into the sheltering trees if the
people proved unfriendly.
   "Welcome to the camp, come on in," a masculine voice called.
   Jacob walked slowly through the remaining trees, toward the
clearing.  He walked into the open space and could see three wooden
wagons, a cluster of horses, and the fire with its gathering of people.
The night had turned cool, and the people were enjoying the heat from
the roaring fire.  Jacob felt a tingle at the base of his spine.  One
of the people at the fire moved toward Jacob, waving his arm.  Six
others still surrounded the blazing logs.  They paid little attention
to the newcomer.
   "Evenin', stranger," The advancing man greeted Jacob.
   "Evening."
   "We jest ate, but you're welcome to a cup, if you'd like."
   "Thanks, but I'm just moving up the Trace, to spend the night."
   "Glad to have you set a spell.  We busted a wheel, an' got stuck
here."
   "Where were you headed?"
   "Memphis, then down river to New Orleans."
   "How long will you need to fix your wheel?"
   "We'll be fixed up by noon.  Come set a spell, young fella.  What's
a youngin' like you doin' wanderin' the Trace by yourself?"
   "Just walking.  I like this area.  I plan to settle down around
here."
   "Must be lookin' fer somethin' mighty valuable, bein' out here all
by yourself."  The man queried, ignoring Jacob's explanation.
   "Just looking for a little peace and quiet, that's all," Jacob  said
firmly.  "I didn't know there was enough fur left around here to make
trapping profitable," he added, nodding toward the battered wagons with
their fur covered burdens.
   "We know how to make the trappin' easier, don't we boys?" the man
chuckled.  A murmur of assent came from the circle of men at the fire.
Two of the shaggy heads nodded their agreement.  "But, you're right.
This'll be our last trip, pickin's gettin' too slim."
   Jacob looked across the fire's dancing flames and was startled to
see a young woman's face.  He had assumed the slight figure was a boy.
   Her light brown hair was pulled back severely and tied in a knot at
the back of her slender neck.  Her eyes met his easily, the firelight
dancing in the warmth of their brown centers.  She seemed ready to
speak, until she glanced at the man who stood at Jacob's side.  She
smiled her greeting, but a flash of fear crossed her face.  She turned
and left the fire.  She walked to the middle wagon as Jacob watched and
wondered why a woman would elect to accompany a group of men she
obviously feared.  He had nodded a greeting to the woman, but was not
sure she had noticed.  The other men standing at the fire ignored the
silent exchange.
   The men were all dressed in similar clothing.  Their grey,
coarse-woven shirts were tucked into what appeared to be leather pants.
Their feet were covered with crudely fashioned boots, and each man wore
a blanket or a coat that matched the fabric of their shirts.  All of
the men wore beards.  Some were pitiful, scraggly things, better suited
to a goat, and some were fully mature brush piles of hair.  They were
uniformly filthy and, even at a distance, their smell was offensive.
Their grimy hands were further evidence of their lack of familiarity
with soap and water.  Two of the group were bald, and their naked
scalps were also coated with dirt.  Their ages were difficult to judge,
with the bulky blankets and the darkness.  They seemed to be in their
thirties, but with a good scrubbing, they might have looked younger.
   The young woman returned to the circle of fire light wrapped in a
blanket.  She seemed to sparkle, with her recently scrubbed face and
neatly combed hair.  She was too different and too young to be a member
of the group.  Something was definitely wrong.  Jacob could feel the
unfriendly attitude of the men toward the woman.
   The only man in the group who didn't seem to be bored to death with
Jacob's arrival was the one who greeted him.  He appeared to be the
leader, or at least the spokesman for the group.  His weather beaten
face, like the faces of the others, was an unreadable, half smiling
mask.  His bald pate was covered with its share of dirt, and his smell,
accentuated now by the heat of the fire, was nearly overpowering.
   Jacob accepted the silent greetings of the men with silence.  Their
leader gestured for Jacob to follow him to the side of the fire where
the woman was standing.  Jacob followed; he wanted to communicate with
the woman.
   "Now, young fella, you can tell us, we all bein' travelers on the
same road and all.  What pulls a youngin' like you out here into Injun
country?  Must be somethin' mighty valuable.  Gold, maybe?" the bald
headed leader of the group asked, expectantly.
   "Like I told you before, I came up here for some peace and quiet.  I
don't have any real plans.  Just thought the place would be a little
less crowded, and I could do a little camping,"  Jacob answered, a
trace of the impatience he felt evident in his voice and manner.  "I
certainly don't have any prospecting in mind."
   "Wasn't thinkin' of no prospectin' neither.  We prefer gold that's
already dug."  The man laughed loudly at his own humor.
   Jacob decided to get away from the group as quickly as possible.  He
watched the five silent men at the fire move away, as if on some unseen
signal, and walked to the nearest wagon.  They maintained their
silence, as they wrapped up in their various sleeping covers and seemed
to fall instantly asleep.  The tension was not lessened with their
departure.  In fact, there seemed to be a new edge to the feeling of
impending danger.
    The young woman finally spoke.  "You take care, Mister.  This old
Trace can be a dangerous place, sometimes."  She nodded and walked to
the second wagon.  She curled up under the wagon, with no more ceremony
than the men displayed.  She too seemed to fall into an instant sleep.
   "Well youngin', you sleep easy.  We'll talk in the mornin'.  I'm
kinda interested in what a fella like you wants outta this place."  The
leader turned and left the fire, with a backward wave.  Jacob watched
the compact figure vanish behind the first wagon.  His thoughts were
racing through the possibilities that were awaiting him.
   Those men were definitely not the type to do their work by the light
of day.  He knew if he slept, he would not awaken.  Despite his
fatigue, he would have to deal with this pack of mongrels before dawn.
   As he moved to put the fire between himself and the men under the
wagons, he pulled the Browning out of its pocket in the pack.  He
worked the smooth, well oiled slide back and heard the first cartridge
snick into the firing chamber.  He pulled the Browning's extra clip out
of the pack.  Twenty-eight rounds, he smiled, that should be all the
education they will ever need.
   He moved beyond the light from the fire, spread his sleeping bag on
the ground, and filled it with the pack and some of the pack's
contents.  Not too bad, he thought.  From a distance that should fool
them, for a while at least.  A wry smile lifted the corners of his
mouth.  He left the smile with the makeshift dummy and wriggled
backward, away from the mounded bed.  He stayed close to the ground,
until he was in the concealment of the underbrush at the forest's edge.
He settled down to wait for the attack he knew was coming.
   His suspicions were justified within an hour.
   Two shadowy figures slipped away from the cluster of wagons.  They
moved in a crouch, away from the wagons and quickly entered the forest.
They were definitely not out to answer a call of nature.  They were
both armed.
   Jacob waited.
   Ten minutes later, he detected movement in the underbrush.  The men
were being more careless than Jacob expected.  The sounds stopped as
the two men halted at the edge of the trees.  Atop the first wagon
there was some movement.  Jacob glanced at the wagon, but kept his
attention focused on the two men who were moving toward what they
suspected was a sleeping fool.  They reached the bundle, and the
closest man raised his arm.  Light glinted on the curved blade of the
poised knife.
   Since he had been following the pair of would-be killers with the
sights of the Browning, he only needed to adjust the pistol slightly
and squeeze the trigger.  The gun recoiled and slid the second round
into the firing chamber.
   The knife wielding man gasped as the soft nosed slug pierced his
skull.  The knife fell silently to the ground as the man slumped beside
the pack.  The second man stood erect and aimed his rifle at the
sleeping bag.  He knew that the shot had not come from the motionless
bag, but he could not find the hidden shooter.
   Jacob squeezed again and the second man fell.  He was dead, the slug
had pierced his chest and heart.  The two bodies rested beside each
other, as Jacob rolled quickly to his left.  He missed the results of
his second shot, but he also missed the tongue of fire that signaled a
shot from the first wagon.  The roar of the rifle and the slug arrived
together.  The slug tore into the empty space, blasting the grass
apart.
   Jacob lay motionless and waited.
   No more shots came from the wagon.  The small clearing was starkly
quiet.  Jacob heard faint sounds of voices coming from the distant
wagons.  He saw three forms leave the wagons, while the lone sentinel
sat on the seat of the first wagon.  All three of the approaching men
carried rifles.
   When the men were fifty feet from the bushes that concealed the
sleeping bag, they spread out and slowed their approach.  Jacob sighted
down the barrel of the Browning and squeezed.  The closest man clutched
his chest and died.  The other men fell to the ground.  A cone of flame
erupted from the wagon, and Jacob rolled left.  The slug tore the grass
apart, again.
   One of the surviving men raised his head.
   Jacob waited.
   The two men slowly rose to their feet.  Their confidence grew with
each second.  They knew the sleeping bag was not a threat and were
searching the darkness for some sign of the young stranger.
   Jacob waited.
   The taller of the men turned his head to shout at the leader, now
standing on the wagon seat.  Jacob struck again.  Three shots slashed
into the men.  One hit each man and one missed completely.  The shorter
man died, the taller one was mortally wounded.  He screamed his outrage
and fear as he fell to the ground.  "Son of a bitch hit me."
   Silence filled the clearing after the almost symbolic shot from the
wagon killed more meadow grass.  Jacob studied the wagon and the fallen
men for signs of further aggression.  The wagon was no longer crowned
with the leader's form. 
   "James..." The leader's voice called across the clearing.  "You
dead?"
   "Damn neared.  What kinda gun's that little bastid shootin'?"
   "Don't know.  How bad you hit ?"
   "Bad.  I'm bleedin' somethin' fierce.  He done kilt Lem and John.  I
guess he got Charlie and Sam too.  He sure as hell ain't dead."
   "Shaddup.  We kin still get him, if you listen.  You stand up, and
when he shoots again, I'll put a round outta my Sharps up his
backside."
   "Like hell.  You stand up, and I'll do the shootin'.  Hell, I'm near
to dyin' now.  I sure as hell don' need no more holes in me."
   "You lazy bastid, James.  I can't trust you with nothin'.  Get off
your lazy ass and we'll kill the little bastid."
   Minutes passed before the reluctant James stood shakily erect and
staggered toward Jacob's last firing position.  Jacob waited and fired
when his target walked into silhouette with the moon.  The slug entered
James' skull, just below his ear.  James was no longer a threat.
   Jacob's move to avoid the inevitable slug from the wagon was almost
too late.  The dirt the bullet ripped from the ground stung his face as
he began his evasive move.
   A second roar erupted from the wagon.
   Jacob rolled again.  No slug tore into the earth.  That last shot
sounded different, Jacob thought.  What's going on?
   "Mister..."  The woman's voice carried across the clearing.
   A new trick, Jacob wondered.
   "Mister, are you still alive out there?"
   No, he thought.  She tried to warn me, besides she didn't seem to be
one of the gang of cutthroats.
   "I'm here," he responded as he rolled again.  No need to take a
chance, he thought.  There was no more shooting.
   "Mordaciah's dead.  I killed him," the woman called.
   Jacob measured his chances against the slim woman he had seen.  She
was armed and, if she killed Mordaciah, she was certainly capable of
killing him.
   "Mister, I know you don't have any reason to trust me, but those
people stole me from a family up in Kentucky.  I'm happier than you
are, to see them all dead.  Please believe me."
   Jacob decided to trust the woman.
   "You stay there.  I'll make sure these men are dead."  He moved
cautiously among the motionless mounds, finding none of them alive.  He
relaxed slightly and retrieved his sleeping bag and pack.  He kept the
pistol in his hand, until he saw the young woman at the fire.  Her
hands held only firewood as she rebuilt the nearly dead fire.
   Jacob inspected the inert form of the leader.  He was definitely
dead, with half of his head and part of his shoulder blown away.
   Both survivors of the battle felt the silence filling the clearing.
The night creatures fled with the first gunshot and would not return
for some time.  The two young people were shaken and had to sit down as
the impact of the slaughter hit them.
   The woman spoke first.  "I don't expect the world will miss that
bunch.  They were evil.  They killed the family I was indentured to and
planned to sell me to some bawdy house in New Orleans.  They beat me
around a little, but Mordaciah figured I'd fetch a higher price if I
was a virgin.  At least he kept me safe, that way."  Her words tumbled
out.  She spoke, as if she were telling a story to a friend.  She
neither tried to justify her actions nor to accept any blame for the
six dead men.
   "Mister, who are you?  Where are you from?  What kind of gun have
you got that shoots so fast?"  Her questions gushed out as she began to
tremble, reality finally catching up with her.
   Jacob moved close beside her and took her into the shelter of his
arms.  "My name is Jacob.  Jacob Mann.  I'm from New Orleans, and all I
really wanted here was a little peace and quiet."
   He held her trembling form as the tears finally surfaced.  This
young woman saved my life, he thought.  But, how can I explain the
Browning?  All I've seen around here are muzzle loaders and one Sharps.
   "Answer a question for me.  Then I'll try to explain everything."
   "What question?" she asked through her tears.
   "What year is this?"
   "What...?  Why everyone knows.  This is 1886.  What do you mean?"
   Jacob pulled her tighter in his arms, partly for her comfort, partly
for his own.
   He knew his explanation to Zoe would take a long time.