Nixon and Dovey: The Legend Returns

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Nixon and Dovey

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I stayed up until 1 am reading Nixon and Dovey last night because I just couldn't put it down. It was so suspenseful that my heart was pounding for the last hundred pages or so. It's a great story. I haven't had such a hard time putting a book down since Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings. – 5 stars, July 2015

Interesting and Exciting. This is a well researched, historical ... I read this quickly because I could not put it down. The characters are fully developed and the plot moves you from page to page. There is tension in every chapter. – 5 stars, March 2015

Wow, from the first page I was hooked. This is a story of courage, hope, terror, and undying love. Inspired by real events … I loved the story line and I loved the characters. – 4 stars, December 2014

A definite 5 star! From the action packed adventure to the unsuspected twist and turns, you will not want to put this down! – 5 stars, November 2014

A great read, lots of action and true love up against power and money. Not like anything I had ever read. – 5 stars, March 2015

Love this story. Bright red flames from a plantation fire reflecting off Dovey's fearful face introduces us to her beauty, naivety, and cultural dependence while foreshadowing a shocking and disturbing twist in the plot. I loved the scene around their first kiss; very romantic while being fun to watch. – 5 stars, December 2015

Just delightful … I am left sitting on the edge of my seat. -– 4 stars, April 2015

Fascinating … entertaining, emotionally packed, and action driven romance. I can see the movie playing in my mind. -–5 stars, November 2014

NIXON AND DOVEY

The Legend Returns

A Novel by

Jay W Curry

Copyright © 2015 by Jesse W Curry, Jr.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

ISBN 978-0-9908046-0-4

Nixon and Dovey is a work of fiction. Although many of the characters and some incidents are based on historical records, newspapers articles, and dramatized writings published years after Nixon Curry’s death, this work as a whole is the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

After 20 years of

library-to-library,

courthouse-to-courthouse,

archive-to-archive research

extending from Utah to Carolina,

New York to Mississippi,

one person supported me every single day …

from dream to done!

Dedicated

To

Nancy C Curry

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Early Map of Mecklenburg Co, N.C

Prologue

PART I. THE BOY

Chapter 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Chapter 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

Chapter 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

Chapter 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43

Chapter 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63

PART II. THE WOMAN

Chapter 6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80

Chapter 7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96

Chapter 8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111

Chapter 9 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131

Chapter 10 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145

Chapter 11 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158

PART III. THE CRIME

Chapter 12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175

Chapter 13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194

Chapter 14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206

Chapter 15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 222

Chapter 16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244

Chapter 17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259

Chapter 18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 283

Reader’s Corner

Acknowledgments

Reading Group Guide

About the Author

Endnotes

An Early Map of Mecklenburg County, NC

Prologue

Nixon Curry (ca.1794 – 1841) was arguably the most widely publicized and notorious criminal in America’s first thirty years. His fame derived not from the brutality or numbers of his crimes, but rather from the determination of the Mecklenburg County, North Carolina, aristocracy to hang the man they thought killed one of their own and from the remarkable talents and outright audacity of Curry’s accomplishments. Curry’s exploits and undying love for Dovey Caldwell would become so legendary that it would be written about for a hundred years. During America’s centennial celebrations, Curry’s story would be showcased in Blum’s Almanac as one of a handful of unbelievable sagas in America’s first century. The basis for his plea to the state Supreme Court was so creative and presumably unachievable that the case is still studied in constitutional law schools.

But the truth has been lost to gross exaggeration, over dramatization, and legendary mythmaking. In Nixon and Dovey, the great-great-great-great nephew of the legendary Curry blends twenty years of research, an array of lively characters, and an exciting—though fictional—plot to showcase many of the actual exploits of Nixon Curry’s remarkable life in early North Carolina.

"Probably there has never been a more tragic foundation

for thrilling romance than the one laid by this episode …

where truth is stranger than fiction."

Biographical Sketches of the Early Settlers

—Hopewell Section, 1897

"Curry was a professional gambler, horse jockey,

and ‘Big Ike’ at all the shooting matches, corn huskings,

vendues … he was a dashing fellow; wore store clothes;

oiled his hair; wore shiny boots with red tops; and was

a general beau, of course."

The Landmark, Nov. 20, 1875

"… Nixon Curry is six feet high, blue eyes, sandy hair,

will weigh upwards of two hundred pounds … He is a

gambler and drunkard, plays the fiddle, and is

fond of joking, and makes a great many shrewd

remarks—is good company, and a pretty smart man."

Reward notice, Arkansas Gazette, 1836

"At the Fall term of the Superior Court … the far famed Curry

was again condemned to be hanged … We believe this is the third

time Curry has been convicted, and had sentence of death

passed on him, … If he cheats the halter, out of his victim

this time, justice will be tempted to give up her claim

for satisfaction and say, ‘Go poor wretch, and sin no more!’"

Western Carolinian, Editorial

Tuesday morning, Nov. 12, 1822

PART I. NIXON, THE BOY

1

Curry Farm, ten miles north of Charlotte, NC

They’re neck and neck! the caller shouted from the portico of the state capital.

The crowd roared as people bumped, pushed, and shoved to reach the front row. In the distance, two riders emerged from the muddy river, whipped their mounts, and rose above the horizon. As a string of mounted horses followed, a man on a tavern roof pointed west. Here they come!

Vibrations rose from the ground, hushing the crowd. The weathered gray buildings shook as the riders rumbled into Raleigh. A thunderous roar broke with the update, Wilson and Curry!

As expected, the talented Nixon Curry, a Mecklenburg County youth, challenged his mentor and perennial champion, Ben Wilson, for every yard. The two undefeated champions battled for the finish. Soaked from the chest down in muddy river water, they leaned into the turn and raced neck and neck onto Main Street. Wilson by a nose!

With five hundred yards to go, Wilson took the lead, then Curry, then Wilson. Two hundred yards to go. Neither horse could take command.

With the finish line in sight, Nixon stretched low over his mount, loosened the reins, and kicked his heels. His mount responded, and Nixon burst into the lead. Stunned, the crowd grew silent as Nixon crossed the finish line, a clear winner.

Nixon reached for the sky and gave a breathless shout. I did it! His ears throbbed. I beat Ben! I am the champion!

Nixon dismounted and paused to ready himself. Dressed in new store-bought whipcord pants, a clean red-and-white linen shirt, and shiny red-top boots—all drenched in river mud but still fresh, clean, and ironed-smooth—he adjusted the bright red bandana around his neck and strutted through the crowd toward the governor’s stand. Stepping on the platform, he removed his new coal-black tricorn hat with a gold-laced rim and displaying the bright Curry Stable cockade. Nixon gestured toward the silent crowd.

A moment later, Wilson dismounted and raised his classic tricorn hat above his head. Cheers exploded as everyone applauded. A path through the crowd opened and Ben strolled forward.

At the steps of the grandstand, Nixon eyed Governor Branch, President Madison, and Senator Caldwell. Taking the last step onto the platform, he grinned as the governor placed his hand on Nixon’s shoulder.

Well done, my boy. Well done. Now wait over here.

Ben stepped onto the platform, an unlit stogie in his mouth, and waved to the cheering crowd.

Governor Branch signaled with his palms to hush the crowd. Folks, we’ve just seen, he said in an orator’s voice, the closest race in Governor’s Cup history.

They’re the best! someone yelled.

Yes, my friends, a close race to the end. But we have a clear winner. I give you the winner of the 1811 North Carolina Governor’s Cup. The champion of champions …

Nixon removed his hat and rubbed his oil-slicked, sandy-blond hair. He stepped forward.

I give you … Benjamin Wilson!

Stunned, Nixon’s pulse exploded, his eyes grew wide. What? His jaw tightened, and sweat broke across his brow. No, sir! I won.

Staring over Nixon’s shoulder and smiling at Ben, Governor Branch ignored Nixon’s plea. Here he is, folks, our winner, Ben Wilson.

Nixon grabbed the governor’s lapels. I’m the champion!

Two deputies seized Nixon by his upper arms and dragged him backward, away from President Madison and Senator Caldwell. Nixon tightened his hold on the governor’s coat.

You can’t do this! he cried.

The sheriff caught Nixon from behind. A marshal threw his weight across Nixon’s extended arms, forcing Nixon and the governor downward. The hold broke, and Nixon fell into the arms of a deputy. He yanked loose and lunged for the governor again. A blow to Nixon’s cheek knocked him off balance. He stumbled back, clearing a path. Nixon hesitated for a moment then charged. No-o-o!

* * *

Through the narrow cracks in the window boards, yellow streaks of warm sunlight sliced across the room and struck Nixon’s long, bony frame. For a moment, he studied the tiny specks of dust floating in and out of a beam of sunlight. Finally, he sat up and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. His heart pounded from the realness of his dream. While his eyes adjusted, he recalled the two guards pulling him off the governor.

The dream faded, and the gray log wall beyond the foot of his bed gained focus. It was only a dream. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and felt the cool, packed dirt floor of the boys’ cabin. "But I can beat Ben," he whispered to himself.

He picked up his worn, knee-patched cotton pants and dressed. Taking care not to wake his brother, James, he grabbed yesterday’s shirt, socks with holes in the toes, and his fragile, dirty cowhide boots. He jammed his ragged-edged straw hat on his head. With soft steps, he eased toward the door and opened it. The morning sun blinded his view.

Mornin’, son.

Nixon blocked the sun’s light with his arm. Mornin’, Pa.

Shirt in hand, he shaded his face until his eyes adjusted. He bent low to place his boots beside the split-log bench in front of the single window in the boys’ cabin. Leaning against the post supporting the low-hanging roof, he waited as Pa washed himself under the oak tree.

With a drying cloth draped over his shoulder and a fistful of lard soap, Pa swiped his chest and underarms. Only the whispering rush of the late spring runoff broke the morning silence. Nixon hoisted the rope-handled wash bucket above his head and staggered the short distance to the rough-cut pine washstand where Pa stood drying himself.

Nixon called it the Curry Ritual: Pa, the washstand, the oak bucket, and the stream, fifty yards away. Using the washstand meant you owned the washstand until you finished. Pa dried his face and took his hat from a cut branch. The bare branch signaled the ritual’s end.

Pa believed in ritual, which meant order, and, with ten kids, order ruled. Ma insisted on a few rules of conduct, but Pa argued, Rules are based on good common sense—a trait the Curry boys have lacked for two hundred years. To Nixon, ritual represented family traditions. Without tradition, he figured the Curry family would be lost.

Pa dried his face then draped the cloth over Nixon’s shoulder. You don’t look good, son. He peered into Nixon’s eyes. You’re sweating. Are you ill?

I’m fine, Pa. Nixon wiped his face. Just a crazy dream.

Pa pitched the water from the tin wash pan toward the base of the tall oak tree. Must’ve been some dream. He set the pan back on the table. Would you like to talk about it?

Bucket in hand, Nixon dropped his shirt on the table and pitched the towel around his neck. In the dawn’s stillness, the spring runoff ricocheted familiar melodies of memories past and slowed his heart. No, Pa.

Pa touched Nixon’s shoulder. Let me fill your wash bucket.

A moment later, Pa—or Ole Jim, as folks called him—strolled toward Nixon with a bucket of fresh river water.

Today’s the big day, son. He poured creek water into the wash pan. The thirty-fifth anniversary of Tom Jefferson’s Declaration. Everyone in the county’ll be in Charlotte today. Pa set the bucket down and studied Nixon’s eyes. You sure you’re feeling well? You still look pale.

Nixon’s gaze met Pa’s. I’m just tired, Pa, and a little nervous.

Good. I reckon if you’re not nervous you’re not ready. Pa pushed the pan toward Nixon. You wash up good, ya hear? Your ma’s not ’bout to let any of her men ride into Charlotte smelling of the hog pen.

Nixon washed his face then rubbed the soft, smooth fuzz, in search of growth worthy of a man’s razor. Not yet, but soon. He scrubbed his chest and, as always, mimicked Pa by drying himself, emptying the pan under the oak, and tugging his shirt over his head. Nixon removed his hat from the branch, grabbed the wash bucket, and pushed the rope handle over the post peg.

Nixon dragged his feet across the cool, moist dew until he reached the porch bench where he settled next to Pa. He took a sock out of one boot and paused.

Pa? he asked as he guided the sock onto his foot. Are you saying Ma agreed I could ride for Mr. Potts? Nixon listened with anticipation as he pulled the sock up tight on his calf.

Pa hesitated, then grinned. Yes, son, we’ve decided you can ride for Mr. Potts.

Oh, Pa, that’s grand! He gave Pa a loving nudge. Me, riding for a real stable. Chasing Ben Wilson for prize money. Oh Pa! It’s all I ever dreamed of. Honest.

Jonathan asked. I agreed, but he also said the better horses will go to the experienced riders.

Nixon nodded. He’s talking about Johnnie Stimson and Sidney Finch. I’ve worked with 'em both at Potts’s stable.

Now, your ma thinks fourteen is too young, but Jonathan says you’re good with horses and you’re a hard worker. Pa rose. So we agreed.

Nixon gazed at the flowing stream. Johnnie on Poor Boy. Sid on Lafayette. They’re the only winners we’ve got. His excitement rose. Except Long Shot, he whispered. Nah, he’s retired. Nixon sighed. He’s a winner though—but old. Ah, that’s it. That’s why Mr. Potts had me work him so hard. He knew all along he would give me old Long Shot. Pa, did he say who I’d be riding?

Pa shook his head. He did mention an old mount. He called ’im his all-time-best horse—except he’s retired now.

Nixon jabbed his toe into his second sock. It’s gotta be Long Shot, he whispered with a tinge of excitement. And I can win with Long Shot. He’s in shape now, and he knows how to win. And he’s got pride. I can win with Long Shot.

Pa sat down beside Nixon. Just do your best, son, and don’t lose your temper.

Nixon accepted the mild rebuke. As his foot settled into the boot, his confidence grew. You don’t believe I can win, do you, Pa?

Pa dropped an arm around Nixon’s shoulder. Son, I believe you’re good, but you’ll find it hard to beat an experienced rider on a prime mount.

Nixon grunted as his foot slipped into the second boot. Pa, I’m gonna win. You’ll see. Johnnie Stimson’s good, but he’s too cautious. That’s why he can’t beat Ben. Ben says you gotta take chances. And Sid is too stiff. He doesn’t move with his mount. You gotta let ’em run. Nixon edged closer. Neither one’s gonna be a champion. But I am, Pa. I can beat ’em both.

Pa looked disappointed. Son, you missed my point.

Nixon wandered out from under the porch. I am the better rider.

Pa gestured for Nixon to sit. Listen son, you’re already an excellent marksman, right?

Yeah, I won the county shoot-off last year. ’Member? And at thirteen, you called me the best marksman in the county.

I believe you are, son. But you ain’t beaten me, have you?

Nixon lowered his head. I reckon you’re better, Pa.

I don’t think so. But when I have Buck, I beat you every time.

Buck, Pa’s prize Kentucky long-barrel flintlock rifle, could shoot straighter than any rifle or musket in the county. Nixon pondered Pa’s claim. You saying I won ’cause I used Buck?

No, I’m saying when you have a good rifle you’re the best. But without a straight shooter, you won’t win. It’s the same with racing. If you don’t have a good mount, you’re just a good rider on a slow horse. It takes a team, son. Like you and Buck last summer.

But Long Shot is the winningest thoroughbred in the state. He knows how to win. It’s in his blood.

Well, we’ll see. Pa slapped Nixon’s thigh. Now wake up James, and let’s get moving. It’s going to be a great day.

* * *

The village of Charlotte bustled with activity. The nation’s thirty-fifth celebration of independence drew all the veterans. At noon, Pa, son-in-law Robert Sloan, and the remaining veterans gathered for a reunion picnic at the home of one of Mecklenburg’s most honored leaders for independence, the late Hezekiah Alexander.¹ After lunch, the dwindling number of minutemen formed up and marched in the parade. Afterward, the womenfolk shopped while the men frequented the White Horse Tavern, where Senator Caldwell offered a free round of whiskey and talked about the national debt. On the church grounds, organized games occupied the children. While the rest of the Curry family enjoyed a picnic, Nixon gained approval from Mr. Potts to use Nixon’s slave friend, Cyrus, to prepare Long Shot for the race. In good spirits, Nixon left to defend his title in the county shoot-off. But, when Pa gave Buck to James, Nixon flew into a rage, missed an easy shot, and stomped off with the fifty-cent, second-place prize.

Head down, toes kicking the dirt, Nixon entered the stable to find Cyrus grooming Long Shot. Cyrus’s sweeping smile showcased the slave’s large, yellow teeth. Tall for fourteen, his wide shoulders and bulky arms and chest gave him the perfect physique. Ya take ’em, Masta Nick?

Nixon kicked a pile of dust. Pa let James use Buck. He can’t hit the side of a barn at ten feet. Pa knew I’d win with Buck. Nixon jerked the currycomb from Cyrus’s hand. Reckon Pa wanted to teach me a lesson. He combed Long Shot’s mane. Every day Pa’s teaching me lessons.

Cyrus backed away. I’s sorry, Masta Nick. Lawd as my witness, I’s sorry.

Stop calling me master! How many times do I have to tell you?

Cyrus looked shocked. I … I’s sorry … He seemed to search for what to say. Masta Potts said if’n I’s ever heard not respectin’ white folk … well, I’s be chained and whipped.

Cyrus’s obvious fear softened Nixon’s anger. I reckon I can’t get used to you being a slave and me being … well, not being a slave. Nixon drew a strand of mane from the comb. Ma says black folks are God-fearing people same as us white folks. And Pa says owning slaves is not a Curry tradition. Nixon dropped the hair on the floor. What I’m trying to say is …well, we’ve been friends since we were born. The way I see it, my pa works for money ’cause we’re white, and your pa works for free ’cause you’re black. Nixon sat on a tack box. I figure we ain’t too different. Being poor white folks, Ma and Pa work day and night so we can eat and have a roof over our heads. Anyway, that’s what Pa says. We don’t own store-bought clothes, and we don’t have a well. If we save a little money, we end up paying Senator Caldwell and other rich folks for things we can do without. It’s the rich folks who have all the slaves. Now, you and your pa get free food and a roof, and the rich folks, they get all the money from us white farmers and all the things you black folks make for them. The way I see it, there ain’t much difference between us.

Cyrus nodded. I reckon you’s right. Only they don’t whip white folks fo’ not showin’ respect. I reckon whippin’ be a mighty big difference.

His anger dissolved, Nixon nodded. I guess you’re right. Remember the night behind your pa’s cabin when we became blood brothers?

Cyrus nodded. I ’members.

You and I are going to run the best racing stable in the whole state. What do ya say?

Yah, suh. Cyrus grinned and shook Nixon’s hand.

The loud screech of the side door startled Nixon. He turned to see John Stimson and Latta McConnell entering the stable. Stimson marched toward Cyrus. What ’n hell you doin’ here?

The short, yellow-haired Stimson wiped his mouth. His right eye twitched. Hey, Mac, these here pups were shakin’ hands as if they was grown white folks.

Nixon maneuvered between Stimson and Cyrus. I was showing Cyrus how a white man’s grip is stronger than a black man’s. He motioned Cyrus. Now get. And don’t forget what I said.

Cyrus backed out. Yah, suh, Masta Curry. You sure is right.

Stimson’s laughed. Well, Masta Curry, get your little, black-lovin’, white-faced ass over here and brush my mount. I gotta race in an hour.

The heat of anger rushed to Nixon’s head. His jaw clamped. His cheeks burned.

Come on, Peach Face. We ain’t got all day.

Holding back his rage, Nixon took a deep breath, exhaled, and relaxed. Do it yourself, Johnnie, he said in a shaky voice. I don’t have the time.

Stimson’s cold stare shot straight through Nixon. Why, you little son of a—

Easy, Johnnie. Latta McConnell grabbed Stimson’s shoulder. The lad’s only—

Stimson jerked free. Leave me be. No teat-suckin’, baby-face kid’s gonna talk to me that way. He glowered at Nixon. You have no time? It’s your job, kid, or have you forgotten?

Nixon picked the currycomb off the tack box and tried to sound confident. I don’t have time. He maneuvered around Long Shot’s backside and, with shaking hands, combed the horse’s tail. Nixon took a deep breath. I’m in the race, too, and I don’t have time for your work.

Stimson’s right eye twitched again. Why, you little bastard. I’ve a mind to—

Latta moved in front of Stimson. Laddie, are ye saying Potts gave ye a ride? Today?

Nixon felt a fondness for Latta McConnell, or Mac, as everyone called him. Scottish born and raised, Mac fit the part, with a dark red beard and bushy red eyebrows to match. Nixon respected Mac’s hard work and casual friendship. While the mean, foul-mouthed, and lazy, Stimson befriended no one except Ben Wilson.

Right, Mac. I’m riding against Ben and all the others today. He stared at Stimson. Which means I’m here to prepare my own mount.

Stimson patted Long Shot’s neck. Why lookee here, Mac. It’s Long Shot. Old man Potts done taken this fat, out-of-shape, stud-spent piece of horsemeat out of retirement. Stimson’s mouth formed a narrow, tight line. I reckon so Peach Face here can whip my ass today. Stimson untangled Long Shot’s mane with his fingers. Hell, he’s gettin’ so old his hair’s fallin’ out.

Nixon’s body tensed. Leave him be, Johnnie. He slapped Stimson’s arm away. You won’t be such a smart-mouth after you’ve eaten our dust.

Why, you little bastard. With an ugly smirk, Stimson grabbed Nixon’s shirt. Well, our little slave lover’s grown up to be a pompus jackass. In a swift, threatening move, Stimson stretched across Long Shot’s back and stared straight into Nixon’s eyes. You want to fight, Curry, or you gonna comb my horse?

Nixon fought his anger. I’ll beat you on the course, Johnnie. That’s all I’ll do.

Stimson’s eye twitched again. Think so, do you? Willin’ to pony up a little bet?

Nixon’s adrenaline was pumping. He wanted to run, but pride wouldn’t let him. I don’t know. Hiding the fear in his gut, he tried to sound casual. What’d you have in mind, Johnnie?

What I got in mind, Peach Face, is five cents. You got any money at all, kid?

Nixon perked up at the possibility of one-upping Stimson. Giving odds, Johnnie?

Stimson laughed. I’ll give you two-to-one you can’t beat me. Five-to-one you can’t beat me and Sid. Stimson hesitated. Five gets ya twenty-five cents or—

I can figure, Nixon said. The question is how much I want to bet. Right?

I can match whatever you got.

Then I’ll wager fifty cents.

Stimson’s gasp gave Nixon the courage to continue. What’s wrong, Johnnie? Need a loan?

Angered, Stimson tugged Latta to the side. I’ll show the little bastard not to get cocky with me. You got any money?

The lad’s pretty good, Johnnie, Latta whispered. Besides, Potts wouldn’t approve of his riders betting against each other, so don’t be lookin’ to me for a loan.

Stimson balked. Bullshit. He’s a kid. He ain’t gotta chance. Stimson chuckled. He’s ridin’ Long Shot, for God’s sake. He ain’t gonna beat anyone. If he wants to owe me for the rest of his life, let ’im. I’ll have him on a leash forever. Stimson wheeled around. You got a bet, kid.

Nixon took Latta’s hand. Mac, you’re an honorable man. You can hold the money, he said as slapped his fifty-cent piece into Latta’s palm.

Latta studied the money before lifting it for Stimson to see.

Look, uh … Curry, I don’t carry that kind of money on me. I mean . . .

Nixon bent over and tapped Long Shot’s foreleg. That’s fine, Johnnie. You can pay me each payday, he said as he raised a hoof and laid it on his knee.

Latta and Stimson held conference in the corner. Nixon couldn’t hear Latta, but he heard Stimson’s strong response:

Don’t worry. When he moved toward Nixon, Stimson’s wide grin displayed black and yellowed teeth. I’m good for it, Nick. But not a word about this to Potts.

Nixon used a pick to pluck a pebble from Long Shot’s hoof. Fine, Johnnie.

Mac, prepare my mount while I have a little talk with Ben.

Not me, old chap, Latta responded. I’m assigned t’ Sid. Ye’ll have to do it yeself.

Stimson’s eyebrows drooped as he snarled.

Don’t worry, Johnnie, even you can learn it. Stimson’s brow furrowed and Nixon regretted his words.

Why, you little bastard! He slapped Long Shot across the back, causing the horse to jerk sideways, slamming Nixon into the stall. The rails jumped off their post and crashed onto a tack box. Nixon followed, butt first. Startled, he found himself staring into Stimson’s hardened face.

Mac, you need to step outside, Stimson said without moving his head.

Latta took a step forward. The lad dinna mean—

Get out!

Potts will hear, he said as he scampered through the doorway.

The barn door closed and Nixon froze. His stomach clenched. Look, Johnnie, I—

Shut up. Posed to strike, Stimson maneuvered around Long Shot’s backside. Such a wise ass.

With five brothers, Nixon knew running only made things worse.

With a bellow of rage, Stimson balled his fists and lunged. Nixon dodged while sending a wide arcing counter-punch. Stimson sidestepped, stumbled, and with a bone-jarring crash, slammed into a pile of rails. The collision spooked the animals, and a chain reaction resulted as the entire stable of horses bucked and neighed. One horse kicked the side of the barn, and a wall of tools crashed to the ground. Several tin and wooden buckets fell from the loft, smashed into the tack box, and rolled onto Stimson. Hay and dirt spewed everywhere. Nixon managed to rise out of the clamor, coughing as he swatted the suffocating dust.

Don’t kill ’im, John, someone outside shouted.

Nixon saw Stimson lying face down in a pile of rails. He knelt and nudged his shoulder.

Johnnie? Can you hear me? Stimson’s eyes rolled back in his head.

Hurry up, John! A second person added. We gotta get ready.

Nixon glanced toward the entry, then back to Stimson. He grinned as he grabbed Stimson by his lapels and shook him. And don’t ever threaten me again! he shouted with empty bravado.

I hope you didn’t hurt him, John, a rider said as the barn door opened. Several men laughed. Yeah, Potts is gonna … Curry?

Nixon made a fist as he moved to the center of the half-circle of riders. Their surprised stares gave Nixon a surge of confidence. Anyone out here want to call me a wise ass? he asked.

The riders drew silent, shaking their heads. Latta moved to Nixon’s side. Are ye all right?

Nixon dusted off his shirt and pants. Sure, Mac, but when Johnnie wakes up, make sure he remembers our bet. Nixon strolled away.

* * *

Once all the riders