Henery took the photographs, gave them a cusory look, then handed them back to Agent Mitchell. "Nope can't say I can make out who that a be ar what kinda motorcickle either. I'd think with all the governmunts fancy gizmos ya could make out a fly on a donkey's ass." Henery said as he spat again "Well now son, let me tell ya. Thar is only three things I gotta do in this har life. Love and protect Kathryn, lay down an die someday and stink once I'm dead. ....... An folk 'round har don't take kindly ta sum city slicker governmut man tellin' us what we gotta do." Henery gave the agent a hard look then said "I reckan ya best be gettin' ol' Willard har back to the ranch and be on yur way. I got fence ta mend. ........... Ifin' you boys'd be taking care of all those drug smugglers an illegals comin' into this har county instead of harrassing peaceable lawabidin' United States citizens. Thangs be a whole lot better off." With that said Henery gentely nuged his horse and road off to the east along the fence line.

Agent Mitchell tucked the photos back into his jacket and watched the hardened cowboy ride off.

"Damn!" He cursed under his breath.

The horse grunted as if responding to the man's discontent.

"You bustin' my balls too Willard?" Joked the man, but he knew what was probably bothering the horse. Squinting up at the sun, Mitchell pursed his lips and exhaled. "Damn, but this state is hot. Why in the hell did I ever transfer out here?"

Kaleb coxed Willard around and they headed back toward the stable. There was only one thing to do now and that was comb the area again, a task he wasn't much looking forward to, especially if ol' Henery mistook him for a coyote again. Unfortunately he had to keep on surveilling the Timbles and now that he was a one man show he could only cover a fraction of the ground that a team could.

On his way back, the agent hugged the fence line as opposed to cutting across country as he did before. He figured it would take a little longer but the going was easier and Willard seemed more accustomed to the perimeter trail. After a while he was alerted to the sound of a vehicle approaching from behind him, and turning he could see an old blue pick-up truck on the other side of the fence making it's way along an overgrown road. Mitchell figured the two men in the cab were locals who felt like driving across country for some reason. Who was he to question what entertained these people? The slowly pulled past him, following a low ridge line parallel to the barbed wire fence and when they roughly across from him, Mitchell raised his hand and gave them a friendly wave. Naturally they were little curious as to why a man in a suit was out riding, but when they saw his shoulder holster, their interest unmistakably turned to panic. Mitchell would know that look anywhere and instinct kicked in. He spurred Willard on into a gallop looking for a way around the fence, unfortunately the old grey wasn't much in the mood for a high speed pursuit and fought to turn off, back toward the stable. The pick-up truck eventually turned away and all the agent could do was stop and watch the trucks dust cloud and the sound of its engine eventually fade away.

Henery had made mention of drug smugglers and at the time he figured the man was just be overly dramatic, but agent Mitchell was pretty sure those guys weren't hauling hay or out for a joy ride. Damn he was getting tired of just missing the mark, all he had to do was get close enough to see the license plate. That is, if the truck even had one.

The old horse shuddered beneath him and Mitchell patted him gently on the neck. "Hey, Willard. Don't worry, we're headin' back now." he said in a consoling voice.

Suddenly the sound of three shots boomed, the three stands of fence just behind Agent mitchel twanged and sprang back. Henery spun Winchester 30-30 saddle gun it's cocking lever in one hand as he galloped up behind Agent Mitchell "Well son ya gonna just sit thar ur ya gonna go afta them coyotes! Bastards bushwaked two of my hands!" Henery yelled as he rode north out across the prarrie in pursuit of the old blue pick up truck.

Yelena gave Tim a crooked smile as she tended to the food she was cooking. Glancing over at him she chuckled softly.

”Henry is very good shot, yes. I almost feel sorry for what ever got in his way. Almost. And what you smell is breakfast. I figured you need good meal after riding long time. Not to mention I know you and I know you not stop to eat well. Is why you look so skinny right now.”

She motioned with her hand that was holding the spatula to the bathroom down the hall.

”I took liberty of getting bath ready for you. I figured you would like to wash road dust off you and look m ore like human than some wild animal. Although you looking like wild animal not a bad thing. But I fear Henry will think you try to hurt me and put a bullet in your ass. Yes?”

She couldn’t help but chuckle as she saw the look on his face. Her look grew somber then.

”There is government agent watching Henry and Kate. An FBI man named Kaleb Mitchell. He keeps asking about Wrangler and Cowboy so I’m sure he is looking for you. I not see him around here but I have idea he has this house and Timbles ranch under surveillance. When I go to town, I use disguise so no one see me like this….or in true form. Except Kate. I not able to keep disguise up one night and she saw everything. I thought she would run away screaming but instead, she let me say what I need to say. She and I have become very good friends.”

Her eyes met his then.

”I not have many friends, Tim. You are only one I still have from old group. And I love to stay here as long as you let me. I gladly work your ranch with you to pay for your kindness. I not have any place left to go and I like it here. Reminds me of farm I had in Slovakia. Only hotter….and drier. “

Three more shots rang out in the distance and Yelena’s eyes snapped in the direction she heard the shots. Looking back at Tim there was concern in her gaze.

“That Henry’s Winchester. And from sounds of it he is further down line. Only time he uses Winchester is when trouble comes knocking.”

"Govermunt Agent pokin 'round, damn trouble just seems ta folla me like a stray pup" Tim said then added ........"Ya don't owe me anything Yelena, but a helpin' hand 'ill be a welcomed thang. Ya just consider this har yur new home. Things settle down a bit we'll get ya U.S. citizenship, I stgill got a few friends in tha State Department. They'll fix ya right up." Tim said just as the ree shots rang out. "Yep that thar sur enough is Henery's Winchester. Reckon I best get presentable an we need ta eat. Tha sound of them thar shots are a piece off, but if trouble comes knockin we best be ready. Thar's weapons and ammunition in the storm cellar, out back. We'll get em tagether after we eat." Tim then walk off to take a quick bath and shave. Shortly he walked out of the bath wearing a clean pair of faded blue jeans and a black T-shirt, drying his hair with a towel.

The breakfast Yelena had prepared was ready when Tim came back from getting his bath. Yelena looked up at him when he walked in toweling his hair dry and smiled.

”Ah. Now THAT looks better. Come. Before food gets cold.”

As she sat and ate the breakfast with him she relayed she had found the guns and ammo when she went snooping around one day. Figuring he would want her to get acclimated with the area, she checked out every nook and cranny she could find, including the old cave that was a short spell (as she had learned to refer to it as) from the house.

”I took liberty of placing some weapons and ammo in house, just to be on safe side. Each room has both but not in plain view. I’ll show you after we get dishes cleaned up.”

She toyed with her fork as she thought of what she wanted to say then finally she set her fork down and asked outright.

”I know you have friend at State Department, but how can you convince them to give me citizenship? I am wanted fugitive in Russia. They not stop until they find me and get me back there. But I not go back this time, Tim. I not allow them to do things to me again. I want to stay here. Raise goats. Or cows. Or what ever people in Texas raise. I know you not let anything happen if you can but…”

She shook her head knowing she had gone off on what Henry affectionately referred to as a ‘tangent ‘. Finally she picked up her fork and took another bite of food. What ever Tim could do she would be more than appreciative but she wasn’t going to get her hopes up too much.

It was a surreal moment. As the Timble rode by, Winchester in hand and shooting from saddle, it was like Kaleb had just stepped back in time. He was completely dumbfounded until, Henery yelled in earnest that the men in truck had just murdered two of his ranch hands and he drove his horse forward. Old Willard suddenly took off like a spry colt and Mitchell followed the fence line looking for a way through. Even if his horse were younger, there was no way the agent would even consider trying to jump it, but then he saw a way through. Up ahead was the creek that meandered past the Timbles ranch house. It expanded at the perimeter of their property and the fence stopped at the bank, it was the only way and Michell drove Willard for it. The old grey barreled through water, kicking up a spray that soaked the agents silk shirt right through, but Kaleb could care less about his attire at that moment.

Up ahead, Kaleb caught sight of Timble in pursuit of the blue pick-up, but it l had found some smoother ground and was pulling way. Henery was determined though, or rather, stubborn. He spurred his horse on, raising rifle to shoulder at a full gallop. Now, Mitchell wasn't an expert on horses by any stretch, but the one thing he knew was how difficult it was to hit what you're aiming for from a vehicle, and it was ten times as hard on a moving horse. As good a shot, as Henery was picking a tire off at a full run over uneven ground was next to impossible.

Agent Mitchell pulled his phone out from the jacket draped over the saddle and called into his field office.

"This is Agent Mitchell, badge number, eight, niner, seven, four, two, three, niner, start tracking my signal now. I am in pursuit of a late model, blue pick-up truck, tail-gate rust coloured, outside of Arnett. Two men, Caucasian possibly Latino descent. Code 245. I repeat, code 245."

Mitchell could barely see the pickup any more, just a dust cloud in the distance. Old Willard was starting to heave and the agent knew enough about horses not to push him and began to ease up. It looked like the perpetrators had found a dirt road and were able to pick up enough speed to leave Henery's horse in the dust but he maintained the chase. All, Mitchell could do was slowly run out, Willard and let him cool down before stopping. Hopefully, Henery would come back. Mitchell was confident that he could find these guys again but he needed some more information on them, he also needed to see the bodies of Timble's ranch hands before he could launch a full investigation.



It had become plainly obvious to Wraith that Cowboy was not holding up at the Timbles. Maybe there was a hidden room, but Rutherford just didn't seem the type a guy to hide out in a hole, more likely he'd be filling that hole with some bodies. No, Wraith was sure he was around, but just not here. What to do?

Wraith weighed his options and it all came down to the fact that he needed back up. Doctor Jacobson seemed a pretty benign target, but he had a feeling he had a bigger part in all of this than he suspected. Better to be safe than sorry, was the motto that Wraith tried to follow and so he decided to back track back to town.

Dematerializing, Wraith quickly ascended into the sky and glided over the Timble's spread to get his bearings and that's when he spied the pursuit off in the distance. At first he thought it was just some country bumpkins out joy riding, but as he got closer it became very apparent that the situation was far more serious. A man, like some cowboy out of a Western novel was riding after a blue pick up truck and shooting from the saddle at it. It was an impressive sight. Then he saw agent Mitchell on horseback! The man urged his horse through a creek and followed the cowboy. It was apparent that the guy in the truck was up to no good, and if Mitchell was helping the cowboy, then he probably had a real good reason for shooting at the driver. Wraith wasn't wearing a costume, though, and one of his golden rules was to never reveal his face. Protecting his identity was of the upmost importance, but from his vantage point the distance between the truck and the lone rider was increasing. If he didn't intervene they'd get away.

As Wraith invisibly sped through the air he noticed that agent Mitchell was slowing down, in fact it looked like he was giving up the chase. Now was his chance. As the truck disappeared behind a ridge, from Mitchell's sight, Wraith materialized and with the speed of a hurricane blew toward the truck.

As Henery continued after the truck he suddenly heard a loud roar of wind rush past him. Wraith's wake stirred up a gale force wind that kicked up a small dust storm behind Timble when he flew past, and all the Cowboy could catch was a glimpse of some unidentifiable thing flying over head.

As Wraith quickly closed in on the truck he had to come up with a way to stop it without causing serious injury to the two passengers he could make out. There was only one way he could accomplish that. Wraith concentrated on increasing the size of his wake. It only took a few moments to build up, then he increased his speed and swooped over the truck stirring up so much dust that the driver was forced to slow down or end up in the ditch. Wraith then turned, pulling his wake back, creating an even denser cloud, so that the truck had to come to a dead stop.

All, Henery could see as he came up over the ridge was small localized dust storm where he reckoned the truck ought to be, as if a tornado came out of no where and struck the road. It was the damnedest sight, one that he might have avoided had he not caught a sight of a blue fender within the cloud.

The cowboy was still about a five minute ride away, when Wraith flew into the cloud, reached into the passenger side window of the truck and pulled the man right out and up into the air. The driver screamed out of fear as he saw his partner snatched by something large. Something like a gargoyle! Yes, that was it! A gargoyle, the man was sure that's what it was.

The driver pulled out a gun and began to point at anything that moved. Of course with all the swirling dust about and the man's imagination working over time he began to randomly shoot at every man-like swirl of cloud that appeared before him. Henery could hear the shots as he got closer, then he heard a loud smash.

As the driver was shooting out the windows of the truck, his unconscious friend fell from the sky and landed with a loud thud on the hood on the vehicle. It was enough to complete unnerve the driver. He screamed, opened the door and ran for his life, believing that his friend was dead. Wraith pursued the man, sprinting after him on foot, but the dust was clearing and the murderer started running straight toward Henery.

"Bastard!" Screamed the gunman as he saw the rider heading toward him.

As Wraith sprinted out of the dissipating dust cloud, all he could see ahead of him was the driver of the truck raising his gun toward the rider. He pushed himself as hard as he could, but there was no way he could make it in time to grab the man. His meta-human instincts then kicked in and began to conjure a burst of wind to blast him aside, but all the gunman had to do was squeeze the trigger. There wasn't enough time for Wraith to act!

As the dust cleared, Henery saw a man pointing a gun at him. Henery placed the reins in his teeth, the butt of his Winchester to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. The man runnig towards him seemed to run into a wall, then fell to his knees, grabbing his chest before falling over. Henery galloped past the dieing man towards the truck. Seeing the other drug smuggler on the hood, Henery dismounted and lifted his head by the hair with his gloved hand. He drug him off of the hood of the truck onto the ground. Walked over, took the rope off his saddle and hog tied the man hands and feet. "Now ya'all wait right cher an' I'll be back fur ya, in a spell." Henery said . He then raised the hood of the truck and smashed the distributer with the butt of his Winnchester. He walked around to the back of the pickup and raised an old tarp. Under the tarp were about twenty-five square plastic bags, taped shut with duct tape. Henery took out his knife and cut open one of the bags. Inside was a block of white powder. Henery turned and mounted his horse and rode back towards the man he had shot.

Wraith watched in horror as the bullet ripped through the gunman. Slowly he dropped to his knees, muttered something and fell over, his body convulsing until it finally lay still. Wraith had seen people shot before but he had never gotten used to it, but even before the man was dead the rider was already dealing with other one lying on the hood of the truck. The cowboy moved with purpose, as if time was a factor and perhaps it was, Devon considered. Where was that FBI agent? Was he still slowly on route?

Seeing the way the man could handle a gun, Wraith had remained fixed on the spot, making no sudden movements, just letting the man do his work. He was about to enquire what the men had done (aside from trying to shoot him) when the cowboy pulled back the tarp covering a load of drugs. Watching, the man cut open a bag, Wraith figured it was cocaine.

Wraith suddenly had a frightening thought. What is this guy wasn't on the level? What if this cowboy was just eliminating the competition? He started to sweat, but tried to remain calm. A meta-human had to remain calm to use their specialized abilities to their best effectiveness and if he had to phase out, it would have to be done quickly.

From around the cowboy's mount, Wraith caught a glimpse of the FBI agent coming over the ridge. He couldn't see him past the horse but he eventually would.

"Excuse me... sir." Mentioned Wraith, "I'd like to explain how I happened by, but I'd rather not be around when that FBI agent gets here. Are there any more of these guys around?" He asked looking down at the body.

Devon kept his hands at his side, slightly raised, so as not to spook the man. He was wearing a pair of grey pants, polished black shoes and a pale blue dress shirt. A far cry from the typical attire of a crime fighter type. As the wind compressed his shirt to the man's tall form though it revealed the typical physique one associated with a meta-human vigilante.

The ridge was a ways off. Mitchell was still probably about ten minutes away at his current pace, but Devon knew that if he saw him there would be a lot of questions without answers. It was more than likely that he could just slip into the wind but it posed an unnecessary risk and he also thought it was best to give this man the benefit of the doubt. For his own peace of mind as well, Devon wanted to know if what went down was fine with the man, and vica versa in his own case.

Henery glanced over his shoulder, but did not see Agent Mitchell, although he was sure he was on the way. Looking at the stranger, Henery considered him for a moment. Henery prided himself as being a could judge of people, he said .... "Well, now pardner ya don't look like ya ar with these varmits. I reckon ya just as soon not get yur ass mixed up in this. So my advice is ta high tail it out a har. ...... I don't know how ya got har and don't give a shit. Thars liable to be a whole parcial of trouble comin' so ya go on an get. ...... Do me favor get a call ta Sherrif Roy Greer in Arnett, tell him Henery Trimble got himself 'couple of drug runners out chur. ... Now go on git!" Henery looked hard at the stranger and added "Ifin' I find out these two ar friends a yurs, there ain't a hole deep 'nough ta hide ya."

Tim dropped his fork as he heard the sound of another shot from the Winnchester, jumped up and ran to the spare bedroom. "That ain't good, Yelena." he said from the bedroom as he hurridly slipped on his boots. Running out of the bedroom, putting on an old faded jean jacket and beatup old cowboy hat, he ran to the center of the living room. He lifted the worn rug revealing a trap door. Lifting the door to expose a set of stairs that led down to the cellar of the line shack.

Tim ran down the steps and grabbed an M&P-15 from the gun rack and an ammo box of clips. He made his way to the back of the cellar and pulled a stack of shelves out. As the shelves swung out he grabbed a lantern, lit it and ran down a passage way., that led to another large room. Inside the room was a tarp covered Jeep CJ-7. Tim pushed on what appeared to be a stone wall and it swung out to reveal the opening of a cave next to a dry river bed. He then turned and pulled the tarp off the jeep.

Yelena heard the shots as well then watched as Tim quickly left the table and ran into the bedroom. Following closely behind him, she tried to reason with him knowing it would be no good.

”Tim….you cannot go out there. What if it is trap? Government agent trying to lore you out of hiding? You cannot take chance. Is too dangerous!”

As he pulled the rug back and disappeared down the rabbit hole, she let out a frustrated groan and followed after him. As he began gathering weapons and ammo, so did she as she rattled off in Russian about this being a suicide mission but not letting him go alone since he couldn’t take care of himself properly without her being there.

As the tarp was pulled off the jeep, Yelena jumped into the passenger seat as she loaded a shotgun and a few hand guns then took the M&P-15 from Tim as he handed it to her when he jumped into the drivers seat and fired the Jeep up.

”I hope we not make big mistake doing this….but Henry needs help…”

The open topped, doorless jeep slid sideways across the dried river bed, the Tim righted it as the sped down the ravine. "Buckle up." Tim said calmly as the jeep jumped up out of the river bed and sped across the flat.

"Henery Timble, eh." Devon repeated, "I'll inform the Sherrif."

As Wraith nodded to the cowboy gusts of wind began to stir and swirl around him, then he leapt into the air and flew straight up into the sky, vanishing before Henery's eyes, like a ghost. It didn't make any more sense to try and attempt to conceal his gifts when the man had already seen so much.

Devon remained invisible and materialized when he was high enough that no one would take any notice of him screaming across the sky. Now that he had exposed himself to a total stranger, and an ornery one at that, the crime-fighter figured he should keep flying straight on to Lubbock. He had, though, told the man that he would inform this Sherrif Greer and he would keep his word.



Sherrif Greer, however, had already been notified. The FBI, unable to readily provide backup to their agent, had put out a call to all local law enforcement in the vicinity, and Greer was all there was.

"Well, shoot!" Exclaimed Roy as he listened to the dispatch call on his two way radio sitting in the middle of the table.

"What the hell is it, Roy?" Asked Stubby who recognized the serious expression that formed on his friend's face.

"Trouble." Answered the Sherrif as he put his hat on and quickly made for the door.

"I'll go get my shotgun." Said Stubby as he followed behind, ready to back up his friend.

"You stay put, Stubby. I'll handle this." Ordered Greer.

The Sherrif got into his squad car, turned on his lights and headed for the Timble's ranch. He hated ordering his friend to stay put, but Greer wasn't sure what he was up against. He was being called in to assist a federal agent in pursuit of two armed and dangerous suspects. He had pretty good idea who the agent was but Roy feared that the suspects just might by Henery and Tim. He prayed it wasn't, but who the hell else could it be? Damn, he sure wasn't looking forward to arresting his old friend.



Agent Mitchell brought Willard to a stop and tucked his phone back into his pocket. For moment he just leaned over the horn of his saddle and stared in disbelief at the scene before him. Somehow, Henery had caught up to truck and single handedly apprehended one of the suspects and shot the other. Dead, it seemed.

"My God, Henery." Exclaimed agent Mitchell, "Nice work."

Mitchell dismounted and pulling his horse along with him, checked out the contents of the truck. "Very nice work indeed." he complimented the cowboy then informed that he had just put a call in to his field office notifying them that the situation was under control. "I'll need to send them a full report tomorrow, so I'll need the names of the ranch hands who were murdered, then I'll notify the county coroner."

Mitchell took one more look at the truck load of drugs once more, shook his head and exhaled nervously. "You realize, Henery, that this load has to have a street value of about five hundred grand." the agent calculated. He then looked over at the cowboy with a worried expression, "Someone is going to be pissed as hell when this doesn't show up. They're going to want it back."

The agent was just now starting to realize the implications of their actions and his mind began to formulate a rather ugly scenario. He had no back-up, no team, it was just him and the 'roughrider'. He'd be damned though if this payload was going to hit the streets.

"Henery," Said the agent as he walked over and handed him Willard's reins, "I'm gonna drive the truck. You gotta place we can stash it? A safe place? I've gotta feeling that whoever these pieces of shit work for we'll coming for it. I'm alone here, Henery, and no offense to your local law enforcement but I don't think they're up for this fight. If you don't want to get involved, I'll understand, it's risky, people could get hurt. If that's the case then just point me in the right direction."

Ten miles southeast of Arnett, just outside the town of Ropesville was one of the roughest bars in Texas. Even the state troopers avoided the place which was considered a virtual black hole of crime. If someone got too close and pulled into the place they were considered as good as dead.

Inside, the bar wasn't much. Dark and permeated with the stench of stale beer and blood one would wonder why anyone, even the lowest of the low would want to spend any time in such a place. The answer was simple, though. It was the answer to just about all questions that were similar — money.



Rednecks was owned by a ruthless man by the name of Harley DeCamp. Born the bastard son of a junkie whore, he himself joked that he was conceived behind the eight ball, which wasn't very far from the truth. At the tender age of nine, he was already running drugs and had made his first kill; a boy six years his senior. It was rumored that he beat the teenager to death with his bare hands, laughing as he did so. Those that knew him, questioned his Humanity, convinced that a monster like him had to be a Meta, but no one knew what he was, nor did anyone have the guts to ask. It was said that one of his best friends once inferred that he might not be Human, and without hesitation, Harely wrung his old friend's neck right in the middle of the bar.

Harley sat at his private table in the back corner of the bar. A place where he could see everything coming. Blue smoke curled out from under the brim of his hat, obscuring his face as he played his game of solitaire. A few tables away, a group of his men, nervously watched the cloak, their eyes occasionally drifting over to Harley, as they anticipated their employers response to the mishap.

The shipment was already half of an hour late and all of the men sitting at the table were in one way or another responsible for appointing the men responsible for the drug-run. It was their asses if anything went wrong, and they were just about ready to kiss them good bye as clock ticked by another minute. Finally one, a big, burly man rose from his seat and walked over to DeCamp's table. Despite the silent, fearful protests of his companions the man walked toward his employer with no fear. He stood over the man and began to offer his sincere apology.

"Mr. DeCamp, sir. I jus' want ya ta know that —"

The man's words were cut short... literally. With blinding speed, DeCamp's arm flashed through the air. There was the flash of metal, then a crimson spray of blood erupted from the man's throat. As the big henchman reached up and futilely tried to close the gaping hole in his throat, Harely continued to sort the blood soaked cards spread out in front of him. He smiled at his progress, completely oblivious of the man dying at his feet and while the man still gurgled away finally acknowledge by peeking over the side of the table.

"Now, ya'll know better than ta interrupt my game, don' chya now?" he said.

The men at the table nodded and nervously answered with stuttering, 'yes's'.

DeCamp then slowly looked up and across at his lackeys. "I... want... my... shipment.." he said coldly.

Quickly the men stood up, grateful that DeCamp didn't choose to just kill them all right there. They each promised to bring back the drugs and realized that if they were not able to attain them, that they best just kill themselves as DeCamp surely would.



As they left the bar, Carnicero the toughest looking of them, nodded to a group of bikers who had been waiting. "Find them." he ordered, "Find them and kill them! And if they are already dead, kill the ones who have stolen from us!"