Lawless Desert by C.M. Curtis

he had read and every picture he had seen, he could tell they were riders of the range, complete with Stetsons and chaparreras. They were all well armed, each man possessing a carbine and a pistol, and seeing him, they reined in. The lead rider looked Chambliss up and down, taking in his sweat-stained clothes, his moccasins, and his lack of hat, weapons, or canteen. He had no provisions or anything in which to carry them. He did not even own a blanket. And he was sure he had not sweated away all the charcoal he had used to blacken his face before leaving the cave night before last. He must look a sight. The rider shook his head in manifest disgust, and then, as if he had every right to interrogate, he said, “Who are you?” Resenting the rider’s tone, Chambliss was slow to answer. Finally he said, “Name’s Chambliss, what’s yours?” Ignoring the question, the rider said, “What’s your story?” “I was on the stage to Tucson. We were attacked by Apaches.” The rider’s brow furrowed. He turned to an older, gray-haired man next to him, and the two exchanged a skeptical look. He said, “That’s a long way from here. What’d you do? Ride your horse to death runnin’ away from the fight?” It was clear to Chambliss that this man would not believe the truth, so he said nothing. When it became obvious he was not going to answer, the rider showed his irritation. He looked again at Chambliss’ moccasins and said, “Steal those off a dead Apache?” Chambliss stolidly maintained silence. An ugly express