Buffalo-Creek-Bay

Wyatt Tanner had been on the trail for years, so it seemed to him. He had spent several months out in the wilds, having suffered two different Indian attacks and left with nothing of value execpt the horse he rode on. A horse which he would only give up upon death...and somehow the Indians seemed to respect that. They'd left him with a small blade and that was all, so traveling as he was it was a mite difficult to keep both himself and Equinox, his bay, alive. If you were to ask him why he was making this trek, he probably wouldn't answer you. You would think there was no reason, just some impersonal force that drove him onwards, on and on,

February 9, 1883 An unusual warmth washed over the prairie this morning and the distinct sound of slushy ice resounded over the land as the cattle moved out to grazing land from the fence line where they had just polished off the morning’s helping of hay forked over from a passing wagon. Daniel Helm squatted by the open doors of the barn scrubbing an old bucket after dumping out some soiled grain that had been ruined by a leak in the ceiling. One of his boys had climbed up and was hammering down new shingles as he washed the muck off the inside of the pail. A wet splat exploded over his head, showering him in snow as a snowball smacked

“Psycho Sam, psycho Sam He burned his First Chance down, Psycho Sam, psycho Sam He burned her to the ground!” In the old town saloon Where drifters called home, Lived a man deemed a brute Who was best left alone. He’s a savage they said Knifed a man for fun, Then chuckled as he bled Before the morning sun. In his First Chance he stayed As watchful as a hawk, Silent ‘til his temper frayed Seemed none could make him talk. T’was late one evening Ol’ Sam finally snapped, Rowdy drunks lay bleeding Others hopelessly trapped. Fire took the First Chance To her untimely death, Where Sam did his