As the wagon rounded a turn, Sergeant Gerber swore. "Looks like a log blocking the road," he said, pulling back on the reins. The wagon ground to a dusty halt.
"Damn," said Lieutenant Anderson, shielding his eyes from the sun. "We're already three hours behind schedule."
A gaunt man with a bandanna covering his face stepped from behind a boulder. He held a huge revolver in his left hand. "I'm afraid you're going to be a lot later than that," he said. "Reach for the sky, and no funny business."
Gerber and Anderson stuck their hands in the air.
"Now climb down, one at a time."
"Okay," said Anderson. "I'm coming first. Just take it easy." He turned to climb down.
Suddenly, Gerber made a grab for his revolver. The highwayman shifted his aim and fired twice. The horses flinched. Gerber's almost headless body fell to the ground, spurting blood.
"I'd like to point out I had nothing to do with that," said Anderson.
"Duly noted," said the highwayman. "Now it's time for beddie-bye." He tossed the pistol up, caught it by the barrel, and viciously smashed the butt across Anderson's face.
Lieutenant Anderson groggily swam back to consciousness. It was night, and someone had built a fire. "Ooohhh," he moaned. "What happened?"
A silky voice from the darkness said, "It looks like you've been pistol-whipped. I found you lying in the road about an hour ago."
"Who are you?" Anderson turned his head toward the voice.
A figure emerged from the shadows, wearing greasy buckskins and black rubber gloves. "My name's Kip Crenshaw. I kinda keep an eye on this territory."
"Thanks for the help, Mr. Crenshaw, but I've got to catch a thief." Anderson started to get up.
Crenshaw stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Anderson smelled chlorine. "You're not going anywhere until morning. You've been pretty badly injured."
Anderson fell back, exhausted from the effort. "I guess you're right." He blinked, trying to stay conscious. "I was... having the weirdest dream before... about swallowing a snake..." Anderson passed out.
Crenshaw smiled.
The General Store was more crowded than usual. A group of men were lounging around the pickle-barrel, discussing the robbery. Kip Crenshaw opened the door and entered, trailing dust.
The owner, Bob Eichmann, greeted him from behind the meat counter. "Hello, Kip. I hear you had some excitement last night."
This comment brought a few snickers, but Crenshaw ignored them. "Yeah. The doctor said the Lieutenant'd be alright in a few days." He ruffled the hair of Eichmann's young son, Billy. "Hiya, Billy."
"Hello, sir."
"Leave Mr. Crenshaw alone, boy," said Eichmann nervously. He returned his attention to Crenshaw. "So what was stolen?"
Crenshaw bent over, inspecting a display of clothespins. "According to the Lieutenant, a shipment of blankets the Army was sending to the Indian Reservation."
Eichmann furrowed his brow. "That's an odd thing to steal."
A tall, thin man near the pickle-barrel spoke up. "As I understand it, those blankets had been deliberately infected with smallpox."
"Well, of course," said Crenshaw. "Blankets are a hell of a lot cheaper than ammunition."
"But don't you think it's immoral to be committing genocide under the guise of charity?"
"Y'know," said Crenshaw, straightening up, "I don't think I've ever seen you around here before."
The others moved away from the stranger. "I just got into town last night," he said slowly.
Crenshaw narrowed his eyes. "In fact, you sound an awful lot like one of those Jewish Intellectuals we've been hearing so much about."
Without warning, the stranger grabbed Billy. "One move, and the little Kraut gets it," he snarled, brandishing a gun. He began backing toward the door.
"Mein Gott," said Eichmann.
Crenshaw held his hands out placatingly. "Nobody's going to do anything," he said. "Just let the boy go."
"No way," said the stranger. "This kid is my passport out of here."
And like that, they were gone.
"My son, my son," sobbed Eichmann.
"Don't worry, Bob," said Crenshaw, patting him with a rubber-gloved hand. "I'll get your boy back. And the blankets. I promise."
If there was one thing in the world Kip Crenshaw was good at finding, it was young boys. He stood on a ridge, sniffing the afternoon air. Within minutes he picked up the faint, ammonialike tang of newly-minted testosterone. He scowled. Unless the wind had shifted, his quarry had fled through Diablo Canyon, an area swarming with hostile Indians.
Creeping from ravine to ravine, Crenshaw stayed alert for any sign of the noble savage. Hours of silent climbing made him dizzy with fatigue. Then, from the bottom of a steep arroyo, he heard voices. He peeked over the rim cautiously. What he saw made him catch his breath.
Two strapping, well-muscled Indian youths were performing the secret Sukemdri ceremony, as part of the initiation into manhood.
Sweat broke out on Crenshaw's forehead.
One of the Indian youths was whipping the other's broad back with a length of rawhide, raising a hatchwork of welts.
"Oh, my God," moaned Crenshaw. "They're... they're...
ooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhh..." His face contorted in ecstasy as a long, shuddering spasm consumed him.
He opened his eyes again just in time to see the toe of a boot flying toward his temple.
When he came to, Crenshaw discovered he was handcuffed to a supporting timber in an abandoned mine. The stranger was watching him closely.
"All comfy?" asked the stranger.
"I've felt better. Where's Billy?"
"I'm over here, Mr. Crenshaw." Billy was sitting on a crate, terrified. "He said he wouldn't hurt me if I promised to behave myself." The crate was stencilled with the words "BLANKETS FOR PEACE".
The stranger picked up an oil lamp and held it near Crenshaw's face. "I don't understand you, Crenshaw. With all your bizarre peccadilloes, you still strive to preserve a status quo that's hostile to your very existence. Why?"
Crenshaw shrugged. "I guess the word 'perverse' covers a lot of ground," he said.
The stranger put down the lamp and walked to the mine entrance. "Well, this chat has been nice, but now I have to check on the horses. Then I suppose I must kill you. A pity. The counterculture could have used you." He left.
Crenshaw waited for a few moments. When he was sure the stranger was gone, he whispered, "Hey, Billy..."
"Yes, sir?"
"Shhh! Come over here, quickly."
Billy looked like he was going to cry. "The man said he'd hit me if I got off the crate."
"Don't worry. I'll take care of him."
Billy approached Crenshaw timidly.
"Now, Billy," said Crenshaw, "I need you to reach into my pants pocket."
Billy drew back. "Daddy told me to never, ever, ever reach into your pocket, even if you were gonna give me candy."
"No, no. I have a tube of K-Y jelly in my right front pocket, and if you get it for me I think I can use it to get these cuffs off."
"Well... okay." He reached into Crenshaw's pocket and started fishing around. "Don't tell Dad, though."
"I won't, Billy. You can bet on that. Ahhh. A little to the left. That's it."
Two minutes later, the stranger walked back into the mine. Crenshaw hit him in the face with a shovel.
Back in town, Kip Crenshaw handed the stranger over to the Sheriff, the infected blankets to the Army, and Billy to his father. "Y'know," he told Mr. Eichmann, "other than the occasional blow to the head, this has been a pretty good day."
Eichmann held his son tightly. "I don't know how I can ever repay you," he said.
"Well," said Crenshaw, "I can always use six or seven pounds of raw liver. And some towels."