We followed the Marshals lead and bade our mounts down the ridge. Thank the good Lord for the horses we had that day for they managed the mad descent, stumbling and sliding before a hard drop into the creek at the bottom. There the Marshal had pulled his revolver and started a steady fire that checked the heathens who had waylaid us.

This Indian Territory is a beautiful but vile land. I do believe that every disreputable human west of the Mississippi is drawn to this sanctuary of the lawless where the burden of civilization is carried by the tough men of the U.S. Marshals Office. We could not trust the kindness of strangers. We, the representatives of the law, were the outsiders.