Introduction - WENN Fairy Tale Series and Scott White and the Seven Actors

I love fairy tales. I've done at least two series of fairy-tale spoofs and re-writes for the sitcom Perfect Strangers and the 40's and 50's movie series The Bowery Boys. (My friend Lauren Miller helped me with the latter.) Although there was one spoof of Snow White done in the late 90's by Diane Valancy, and I wrote a take on several fairy tales set around "And If I Die Before I Sleep" during the summer of 1998, that was as far as most WENN fanfiction went into fantasy.

I thought...what if I not only used the familiar fairy-tale stories, but gave them different settings, like I did with the spoofs? Snow White in the Wild West, with a male Snow White? The Little Mermaid in early 1900's New England? Beauty and the Beast in Depression-era New York - with two sets of beauties and beasts? Little Red Riding Hood delivers bathtub gin to Granny in a 20's speakeasy? (I do intend to keep "King Arthur" and "Aladdin" in their original medieval and Arabian Knights settings at the moment - I can't see them anywhere else.)

Each main WENN character will have a story that revolves around them. (Comic relief couples Eugenia and Mr. Foley and Gertie and Mr. Eldridge will share their stories.) We kick off the series with one of my favorite characters on the show - the roguish con-man-turned-actor/station manager Scott Sherwood.

This is set right after the third season episode "And How." To tell the truth, I've never been a big fan of "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs." Neither is Scott Sherwood. As he listens to a family show on WENN that recreates favorite fairy tales, he ruminates on his own problems. He wants to show Betty he really does care and get back at Pruitt for throwing him out. The current show and the earlier "Strange Loner" broadcast intrude, giving Scott a very interesting western-themed daydream...

Scott White and the Seven Actors, Prologue

A WENN Fairy Tale: Scott White and the Seven Actors

Rating: PG-13 (violence, attempted and referred-to murders, fisticuffs, gunplay, mild innuendo)

Pairings: Betty/Scott, some Hilary/Jeff

Disclaimer: The characters always belong to Rupert Holmes. The show would belong to American Movie Classics if they'd acknowledge its existence. The original “Snow White” belongs to the Brothers' Grimm.

Prologue and epilogue are set directly after third season episode "And How."

Prologue

Scott Sherwood sighed as he went to get coffee in the Green Room. He'd just come from talking to Betty after the big “Strange Loner” broadcast. It hadn't worked out with the networks anywhere near as well as they'd hoped, but the were able to help Joseph Grayhawk not only keep his part, but get a better one. He'd talked to Joe shortly before the broadcast. As stiff as Joe could be on the air, he was laid-back and fairly funny when he didn't have a script. Joe was so appreciative of what they'd done for him, he gave Betty a real ceremonial tomahawk from his tribe. Of course, Betty had used the tomahawk to chase him off when he tried to ask her out, but it was the thought that counted.

Scott sighed. Betty Roberts was beautiful, smart, and strong-willed, everything the late Victor Comstock said she'd be...and far more. When he talked to Victor in London, he couldn't believe any woman was as perfect as Victor described her. Betty Roberts was. She was a marvel. She could match him eye for eye, but she was no con woman. She was a corn-fed beauty from Indiana who never told a lie that didn't involve the station or its workers, never stole, never did so much as looked at someone the wrong way. He never thought a girl like her could go for a guy like him...but during that quarantine a few months ago, when she kissed his cheek and danced with him, he'd suddenly begun to wonder what it would be like to really be in love for the first time.

A few months ago, it all came crashing down. Rollie Pruitt was the nastiest snake he'd ever known. He'd figured him for a jerk the moment he'd ordered their Christmas shows canceled. Pruitt hadn't liked the way he'd kept the station just barely out of the red. He wanted to shut the station down and sell it off, like he was selling off cattle or property. Scott knew that WENN was worth more than the sum of its parts, but all Pruitt cared about was making money and saving face, especially his own.

“What was I supposed to do?” he finally said to the half-full cup of hot brown liquid. Pruitt had gotten his revenge for Scott helping to humiliate him at Christmas. He'd sprung an audit on him, found out about the illicit “Memorial,” and had him fired. He knew he'd deserved to be punished for the embezzlement. Taking the money had been wrong...at least, he understood that now.

What hurt him more than anything else was being punished by Betty. He'd lied about being a close friend of the late Victor Comstock, just to get a good job and flirt with a pretty girl. When Victor died, he thought that was that. WENN needed him. There was no time to consider how he'd gotten there when there were bills to pay, shows to develop, and sponsors to attend to.

He had no idea how Betty figured it out. She'd acted strangely ever since the night of Holstrom's arrest. Betty saw something that night. She refused to tell anyone what it was. All he knew was, whatever she figured out turned her towards the letter and book of limericks...and against him.

He switched on the radio, trying to drown out his thoughts. Eugenia, Maple, Mackie, Jeff, and Hilary were performing their evening children's version of “A Book at Bedtime,” “The Land of Make Believe.” Maple played Janie, the little girl who supposedly came to the Land of Make Believe every day to hear a half-hour version of a famous fantasy story or fairy tale.

It sounded like “Snow White” was today's story. Mackie must have gotten Betty to split the dwarf roles after he played all seven the last time “Snow White” was in the rotation. He only had four of the seven dwarfs this time, along with the huntsman. Scott would be the prince and the remaining three dwarfs a little later.

He made a face. He'd never liked this fairy tale. That Snow White was a snore. She didn't do anything besides get poisoned and bake pies. The prince was even more boring. He just showed up in the end and married Snow White. Even Walt Disney couldn't find much for him to do! The dwarfs and the witch really carried the story.

“If I was still the station manager,” Scott muttered to himself, “I'd get Betty to re-write this with a lot more action. Let the prince do something to earn Snow White, for a change. And why does Snow White have to sit around like a goose ready for plucking? She should tell that evil witch a thing or two!”

He laid back and closed his eyes, letting the words wash over him. I wish I could tell Pruitt a thing or two...and Betty...I want to protect her, if she'd let me....

Scott White and the Seven Actors, Part 1

Train to Wennton, Colorado, May 1880

Scott Sherwood watched the arid, scrub pine-dotted landscape fly by him. I'm going home, he thought. He hadn't been back to the Bar S in years, since his father, Kevin Sherwood, died. His mother, Fiona, had called him home. He knew she'd been lonely, but she had the ranch hands, and the servants. He'd rather see the world. He'd been living with his Aunt Agatha in Boston, but had mostly traveled, gambling his way from New England to Calcutta.

He looked up as a young woman came into his compartment. “Oh,” she said, surprised. “I didn't realize this seat was occupied.”

She was an eyeful, he had to admit that. Her chestnut-brown curls were pulled back in a chignon under her simple pale-blue hat. She wore a pale blue suit with black trim and a large black purse. He immediately stood for her. “Not at all. Take any seat you'd like.” She ignored the offer and sat in the seat across from his. “So,” he began, “where is a beauty like yourself on her way to?”

She sat up straight, pulling a battered red notebook and a pencil out of her purse. “Wennton, Colorado,” she told him. “I work at the Wennton Weekly Gazette there.”

“Ahh. You're a newspaper reporter.” He grinned. “Very exciting. Got any big stories you're working on right now?” He inched a little closer to her seat. “Besides me, of course.”

“Actually,” she said, without looking up from her notebook, “I'm working on something I'm hoping my editor will be very interested in. It could be the biggest story to ever hit Wennton.” She frowned. “The Professor's Gang has been running people off their land...which is then being bought by some mysterious party from back east for a song.”

Scott shook his head. “What would anyone want with Wennton? It's just a town people pass through on their way to somewhere else. There's no gold or silver in those there hills. Sure, the farming can be good, and there's a couple of cattle and horse ranches, but they're no boom town.”

The woman nodded. “That's what I'm wondering. I was doing research in Pueblo, trying to find out more about these land deals and how the Professor's Gang operates.”

He shrugged. “They must be pretty desperate. There's nothing under that town but ground and scrubland. I grew up there. It was too quiet.” He got a little closer to her. “Now Denver, there's an exciting town. Maybe I could take you to a theater I know there....”

She shook her head. “Sorry. I really need to work on this story. I came to Wennton from Indiana three years ago, and I've made a lot of friends there who could lose their livelihoods if these deals go through.”

“Yeah,” Scott said under his breath, “that makes two of us.” He didn't know what his mother would do if some two-timing land grabber tried to get a hold of their ranch. The Bar S had been his father's whole life...and after his death, it was hers. He shook the thought out of his head and turned the smile back on. “How about next week, after we've worked on this story?”

“We?” She stared at him. “Are you a reporter?”

“No, but I know people. I could ask a few questions.”

She took in his fancy blue suit and narrow yellow tie, with the expensive hat with the red ribbon. “I'll bet you know people.”

“So,” he started, “what do they call you? Maybe I'll look you up in town.”

“Betty Prince.” They both heard the conductor announcing their imminent arrival in Wennton. “And what do they call you?”

“Scott Sherwood.” He took her hand and gently kissed it. He noticed that, though her warm brown eyes remained amused, she didn't pull her hand away. “You know, I could walk you to your hotel.”

She shook her head as they disembarked. “That won't be necessary. I need to stop at the office first and talk to my boss about this story.”

He tipped his hat. “I'll see you later tonight, then.”

She nodded. “We'll see.” He watched her stroll across the street to the building that housed the Weekly Gazette offices. What a gorgeous woman, he thought wistfully. Smart, no-nonsense...I'll have her eating out of my hand in no time.

“Scott Sherwood?” A decidedly different sort of female voice met his ears as his mind returned to the present. It was scratchy and prim. He found himself looking towards a dowdy, middle-aged woman in a plain dark-green plaid suit. “I'm Priscilla Cosgrave. I'm the secretary for Rollie Pruitt, the head of the Bar S Ranch.”

Scott narrowed his eyes. “Why did Mom marry him? Of all the men she could have had, what did she see in the most miserly financier in Denver?”

Cosgrave ordered two large, burly men in dirty cowboy outfits to pick up Scott's suitcase. “ It was a lovely wedding. You should have been there. The whole town came. They had a real whirlwind courtship,” she explained as they stepped into the Bar S Ranch's private coach. “It's too bad she didn't get to enjoy it for very long.”

Now Scott was really worried. “What? Where's my mother? Why isn't she here?”

Cosgrave rearranged her skirts as they sat across from each other in the plush seats. “R.P will explain everything when we arrive. He has some new...arrangements...for running the ranch.”

The worried feeling remained in the pit of Scott's stomach all through the ride to the Bar S. It was several miles outside of Wennton, at least an hour's drive. He'd heard from his mother just last week, but her letter was full of concern...and pure, naked fear. Someone was trying to run them off their land. There had been accidents. Their long-time foreman was killed in a stampede. Some of their cattle had twice been stolen overnight by unseen rustlers. Two sheds were set on fire; hundreds of dollars worth of supplies vanished.

Nothing seemed terribly different as they rode through they drove under the weathered wood sign and onto the main path to the house. The house was still the same three-story yellow clapboard and shingles farmhouse he was born in. The outhouses all looked the same. The ranch hands still had the cattle out in pens, grazing on grasslands that stretched as far as the eye could see. He did note that the ranch hands and the cowboys were all wearing black armbands or black bandanas. Another “accident,” he thought angrily. This is getting out of control. Mom should do something about it.

The carriage stopped in front of the main office building, a log cabin just beyond the main house. He tried to shut out the memories of coming to see his father here, when he was still alive. His father would take him on his knee and let him play with carved wooden oxen while doing paperwork and dealing with the foreman. Cosgrave told the men to take his suitcase to the family house. He followed her into the building.

“Scotty!” Pruitt sat behind the speckled pinewood desk that had been his father's, then his mother's. His father's paintings of Colorado's natural beauty and shelves of wooden carvings had been replaced by heavy, ponderous old books with stiff leather bindings and portraits of fat old gentlemen in fancy waistcoats. Pruitt reached out to him. “I have so much to tell you, my boy.” His smile looked as phony as the seaside property Scott once sold some rich man in northern Nebraska. “So much tragedy.”

“Tragedy?” Scott leaned on the desk. “Where's Mom? Why didn't she meet me?”

Pruitt pretended to dab at his eyes with a handkerchief. “It's so sad.” Cosgrave blew her nose behind them. “My dear, sweet Fiona is dead. She died just last week of a rattlesnake bite. They buried her yesterday.”

“No!” He slammed his fists on the desk, his eyes wide with shock. “Mom wrote me last week! She was alive then!”

“It was all so, so sudden.” One of the goons pushed Scott into the heavy, velvet-trimmed visitor's chair in front of the desk. “Have a seat, dear lad.”

Pruitt went to Scott, walking around the chair. “You're the spitting image of your father, Scott. He was quite a handsome devil, too.” He lifted his chin, as if studying his strong features. “Yes, very much like your father. Eyes the color of the canyons, hair as black as the trees in the valleys after a wildfire, skin as fair and soft as snow on the Rocky Mountains.”

Scott pulled his head away from Pruitt's fat fingers. “Thanks for the assessment, but I can see myself in a mirror.” He clutched the sides of the chair. “What's going to happen to the Bar S Ranch?”

The older man smirked. “Fiona and I had a long talk after we were married. She agreed that the ranch needed someone with experience to run it, someone who knows about business. I'm now the sole heir to the ranch and all its holdings.”

Scott glared at him. “And me?”

“You? A two-bit gambler, who abandoned his own mother?” He snorted. “You and your good looks are barely suited to menial work.”

Scott's fingers wound tighter around the chair's sides. “Pruitt, the ranch belongs to me, and you know it. I'm the rightful Sherwood heir.”

Pruitt steepled his fingers. “You gave up your claim on this ranch the day you walked out on your mother. Miss Cosgrave and I did research on how you've been making your way in life in the ten years since you moved to Boston, haven't we?”

Miss Cosgrave tried to keep from moaning when Pruitt rubbed her shoulder. “Oh yes, R.P” She turned her bespectacled, watery eyes to Scott and shook a finger at him. “You've been a very bad man, gambling away every cent you've made, spending your time with loose women and people who swindle good, solid gentlemen out of their hard-earned dollars.”

“I never hurt anybody!” Scott protested. “Most of those rich guys had it coming to them.”

Pruitt sniffed. “That's no excuse.” He sat back down and riffled through the papers on his desk. “I only just learned about your arrival a few hours ago. If it were up to me, I would have let you die in some stinking back alley in Constantinople or Rabat. Fiona had a sentimental streak when it came to you.” He put the papers aside. “Since you're here, I might as well make some use of you. You'll pay off your debts to me and your poor, late mother by working as a ranch hand. A little time in the sun, wrangling cattle and building fences, will put some color into those pale cheeks of yours.”

Scott narrowed his eyes. “Something's wrong here. Mom knew how to handle rattlesnakes. She wouldn't have let one into the house. I know a con when I see one.”

“The coroner ruled Fiona's death an accident, Scott.” Pruitt leaned close to the younger man's face. “I'd suggest you do the same.”

He nodded at the mook who stood behind him. “Frank, take Mr. Sherwood to the ranch hands' quarters to change into clothes more suitable for his current position. You have my permission to make that attractive face of his far less so if he causes any trouble.”

“I don't need the escort. I grew up here. I know where the ranch hands' quarters are.” He stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him. Frank just shrugged and followed him. He was not a man of many words, or brains, really.

Miss Cosgrave sighed. “You know, Mr. Sherwood is rather handsome.” Pruitt gave her a nasty look. “Not like you, of course, R.P. But he's still good-looking.”

“Yes, I know.” Pruitt sneered. “I don't like that. He's too attractive, too charming, and far too intelligent. He's already suspicious about Fiona's death. We may have to eliminate him as well.” He sat back in his chair. “For now, we'll keep him under wraps. My boys will keep an eye on him. If he gets out of line,” he chuckled, “I know people who will get rid of little problems for a fee.”

Scott White and the Seven Actors, Part 2

Two Months Later, The Bar S Ranch

Betty Prince arrived at the ranch, determined to get to the bottom of a lot of mysteries swirling around the large cattle spread. The Bar S was one of the more prosperous ranches in the area. What she didn't understand was why her boss Rollie Pruitt wanted it. He already owned most of the town, including the Wennton Weekly Gazette, according to the research she'd been doing here and in Denver. Most of the townspeople lived in fear of him.

She climbed off her horse and took a look around. She was supposed to be meeting Pruitt here. He wanted to discuss the story she was working on. The Professor's Gang had struck two other ranches in the area, stealing their cattle and forcing them to sell most of their land. She had a few questions of her own she wanted to ask.

“Betty, Betty, Betty!” She looked up, surprised to see the man she'd met on the train riding towards her on a brown mare with a white mark on her forehead, herding cattle into a pen. He wore a black shirt with worn denim trousers, a battered felt cowboy hat, and dirt-crusted boots. His silvery-black hair was now a little longer, and his cheeks were flushed from the constant exposure to the sun. “How's your story coming?”

Betty sighed. “Not as well as I'd like. People are terrified of this Professor's Gang. Two ranches were hit in the last month, and I can't get either of the owners to talk. There's been more land purchased, too, the fields on the outskirts of town, near that old barn. I have no idea why anyone would want that. The farm there failed – that barn hasn't been used in years.” She looked at a small pocket watch. “I have an appointment with Mr. Pruitt in a few minutes. You wouldn't know where the manager's office is, would you?”

“I sure do! Matter of fact, I could take you there.”

“All right. I really don't know my way around.” She raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing here, anyway? From that fancy suit you were wearing on the train, I would never have guessed you were a cowboy.”

“I wasn't planning on being one.” His tight grin didn't quite meet his eyes. “Let's just say that you're not the only one trying to solve a case. I came back to Wennton to find that my mother was killed by a rattlesnake that got in her house.” His brown eyes glittered with fury. “They said it was an accident, but I don't believe them. I think she wouldn't sell her land and was murdered to get it.”

Betty nodded sympathetically. “I'm sorry. It must be hard to lose someone you love like that.” She looked sadly down at her hands. “I lost someone I love recently, too. Sheriff Victor Comstock was my fiancee. He went to Denver to talk to government officials there about a year ago and died in a gun battle when bandits raided his posse coming back to town.” She wiped the tears that glimmered in her eyes. “I miss him so much. It was hard to go on without him.”

Scott looked away from her. “Mom and Aunt Agatha were all the family I had in the world. I'm glad Aunt Aggie is back east.” He closed his eyes, not wanting her to see the hurt that plagued them. When he turned back to her, he was smiling. “You're not the only person who can play detective. I've been asking questions here and there. The other ranch hands don't think it was an accident, either. There was no inquest, no follow-up questions. No mention of a puncture wound, either. A snake bite would have left a mark.”

Betty frowned. “The Professor's Gang has been forcing people off their lands for months, usually with threats, but they've never actually killed anyone. Do you think there's a connection between your mother's death and the Professor's Gang?”

Scott nodded. “Yeah, I do. Pruitt's up to something. He wants the land badly, but why? Why murder a woman and run a lot of decent, hard-working people out of their homes, just to get scrub land, canyons, and pine trees that are only good for feeding cattle?”

“That's what I wanted to ask Pruitt.” She pulled her horse in next to the hitching posts near the office building. Scott did the same.

She knocked on the door. “Hello? Mr. Pruitt?”

Scott looked around. “You know, maybe we can do some investigating before he arrives.” He took a piece of wire out of his pocket. “Good thing I was working on the wire fences out by the pastures today.” He jammed the wire into the lock and wriggled it around a little. Betty kept a watch out as he worked. She returned just in time to hear a “click” and see him push the door open.

Betty followed him into the office. “Where did you learn that?”

“Picked it up working for a locksmith in Pueblo.” He finally pushed the door open. “After you.”

Scott went to the desk first. Betty started in on the bookshelves. “There's nothing here that's out of the ordinary.” He riffled through files. “Earnings...cattle sold...payroll...”

She pushed the book back on the shelf. “He probably doesn't keep them in there. I'll bet he has a secret box or safe somewhere.”

“Already on it.” He took out a stack of books and started feeling around the bottom of a desk drawer. “This is shallower up top than it is on the bottom. I think the bottom's false.” She joined him as he ran his fingernails along the bottom of the drawer. She drew a breath as the bottom swung open, revealing another, heavier stack of files. “Bingo. Take a long look at these.”

She nodded. “There's files on every single business or home that was driven away from their land. I recognize the names. The Bar S is in here, too.” She looked them over. “When the land was sold...cost of sale...mineral quality...huh? I thought there were no mineral deposits anywhere near Wennton. That's up in the canyons.”

Scott frowned. “What's going on here?”

“I don't know...” Betty looked up as they heard voices. “Pruitt's coming!”

Scott grabbed the files. “Help me here!” They shoved the files in, then closed the false bottom, then dropped the books back in the drawer. Betty had just gotten the last book back on the shelf when the door swung opened.

Pruitt raised his eyebrows. Cosgrave just made a face. “Aren't you a bit early for our interview, Miss Roberts?”

Betty nodded at Scott. “Mr. Sherwood brought me here faster than I anticipated. The door was unlocked, so we thought we'd wait for you inside. It is terribly hot out there.”

Pruitt took his place behind the desk. “I don't remember leaving the door open. In fact, I distinctly recall telling Miss Cosgrave that it needed to be locked to keep out all the vermin that tends to slither and crawl in.”

Scott shrugged. “Maybe she forgot.”

Pruitt glared at him. “Shouldn't you be leaving? You do have chores to do. The rest of the cattle needs to be rounded up, the stables need to be cleaned, and the back fence requires a new coat of whitewash.”

“Yes, sir.” Scott tipped his hat at Betty with a small grin. She gave him a small grin back. Her eyes followed his burly, rugged figure all the way out the door. He looked good in the tight, dark denim jeans.

“Miss Prince,” Pruitt snapped, “are you here to talk to me, or flirt with my ranch hands?”

Betty shook her head, a bit dazed. “Who is he, sir? Who is that ranch hand? He said his name is Scott Sherwood.”

Pruitt snorted. “He's a wastrel and a con artist whom I took in out of the goodness of my heart when he came here begging for money. Barely worth the time of day.”

Betty frowned. “Sir, to come to the point, I wanted to ask you a few questions for the story on the land grabbing I've been working on. I think we can tie it into the Professor's Gang.”

“Oh yes, the story.” Pruitt shuffled some papers. “I wanted to talk to you about that story as well. I've heard from people in the valley that you've become a bit of a nuisance with that story, asking questions about land and bandits where questions aren't wanted.”

Betty bristled. “My questions were in every way professional and in confidence. I think someone is buying up the land illegally. They may even have killed to get it.”

Pruitt laughed, a silky, evil chuckle. “You have an amazing imagination, Miss Prince. If people are buying land, it's for cattle grazing or farming, or to build new homes on. If they would even want worthless scrub land.”

“Two families were driven off their land in the past month, Mr. Pruitt. That land is worth money to somebody.”

Pruitt shuffled some papers. “Miss Prince, I'm taking you off this story.”

Betty frowned. “What? Why? I'm getting so close! I think this could be a real scoop!”

“Why don't you do a story that's a little closer to the pulse of this community?” He handed her a poster. “You'd be perfect for this. The county fair next month is the biggest event in this area. It needs someone with your...expertise to cover it.”

“Jam and pickle-making contest?” Betty shook her head. “I don't know anything about pickles and jam!”

“You have plenty of time to learn, don't you?”

Betty dropped the poster on the desk. “Mr. Pruitt, I...”

Pruitt looked down at his papers and waved her away. “You're dismissed, Miss Prince.”

Betty stormed out the door as Miss Cosgrave entered. “What got into her?” Miss Cosgrave nodded at the angry young woman climbing on her horse outside.

Pruitt watched her. “It's too bad she's so beautiful. She's much too curious. So is that stepson of mine. They were both here, snooping. I know what they were looking for. He wants to find out about his mother's death. She wants information on my...land purchases.” He narrowed his eyes. “She'll have to be watched. She's tenacious, that woman.”

Cosgrave sat at her smaller desk next to his. “And Mr. Sherwood?”

Pruitt narrowed his eyes. “He's a liability. I thought keeping him around where I could see him would keep him out of mischief. Obviously, it hasn't. I know he was snooping around in the house, too. He was supposed to be painting the upstairs rooms last week. I caught him searching in the room I once shared with Fiona. He said he was looking for a paintbrush, but that was the most phony fib he's given me yet.” He sat back in his chair. “I think it's time we called one of those...people...I know who get rid of problems. He's made himself into quite a problem.”

A Few Hours Later, Office at the Bar S Ranch

Pruitt grinned at the tall, red-headed woman standing before his desk. “You know your job, Miss LaMarsh?”

She nodded. “Yeah,” she said in a heavy Brooklyn accent. “But ain't cuttin' out his heart an' bringin' it to ya in box a little...much? I mean, what did this guy ever do to you?”

“It's not your place to question your orders. I want proof of his death. If he lives, he could undermine my position and my inheritance.” He handed her the knife with the fine pearl handle and long steel blade. “Here's what you'll use to do the job.”

Maple nodded. “You got the money?”

“After you do the job, Miss LaMarsh.” He handed her the knife and a velvet-lined box. “You've done jobs for me before, and you've never let me down.”

“I'm the best.” She put the knife and the box in a fringe-trimmed leather bag. “How am I gonna get him to come with me?”

“I've already arranged that. I told him you're a new worker, out to help him round up cattle that's strayed into the valleys and canyons.” Pruitt looked at the clock on the wall. “He should just be finishing dinner at the meal house with the other hands. You'll meet him there. Bring me his heart as soon as he's dead. Leave his carcass for the buzzards.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Gee, now I wish I hadn't already had my dinner. That's a nice visual there.” She slung the bag on her shoulder. “I'll see ya later.” Pruitt watched her as she walked out and climbed onto her horse. Miss LaMarsh, despite her frivolous name, could be quite ruthless when it came to her work. She'd eliminate that meddling Sherwood stepson of his...and he would be the only handsome man in charge of the Bar S and its lands.

Scott White and the Seven Actors, Part 3

That Evening, In the Canyons Outside of Wennton

Scott shaded his eyes as he looked around the narrow floor of the canyon. “Are you sure you saw them down here, Maple? It seems a little odd for some of our cattle to wander this far.”

Maple wasn't listening to Scott. Her mind was on the task ahead. What she hadn't told Pruitt was she knew Scott. She knew him well. She'd helped him with a couple of cons out east. They'd even had a brief relationship, before they decided they were better off as friends. There was no way she was going to let anyone, let alone some penny-pinching jerk, kill off a friend of hers.

He turned his brilliant grin to her. “How did you end up with this job, anyway? I thought you said you weren't a country girl. The only animals you ever dealt with were the kind who paw your dress when you're conning them.”

She shrugged. “What can I say, Scotty? Times are tough. It was either this, or not eat.”

Scott nodded. “I can understand that. I've been having a pretty rough time lately, too. I came out here to talk to Mom, only to find she's dead and Pruitt's got the ranch.” He clutched the reigns harder. “Pruitt doesn't care about the Bar S. He'll run it into the ground at first opportunity. I think he killed Mom, or had her killed. I just need to prove it.”

“He didn't exactly seem like the most pleasant guy in the world to me.” She watched Scott as he turned his back to her, the light from the setting sun falling over him. His black-silver hair practically glowed. Now is the time. “You know, maybe the cattle went in a cave to get out of the sun. It can get hot over here. The tumbleweeds ain't gonna give ya shade. Some of 'em might have water in 'em, too.”

“Yeah, that's true.” The two dismounted their horses, tying them to a rock, and headed for the canyon walls. Scott lead Maple into the first cave, a dark, rather shallow-seeming outcropping under a pile of boulders. Scott's back was turned to Maple as he looked around, his eyes intent on finding the lost animals.

This is it. I gotta do it now. “Scotty? Do you see anythin'?”

“Nahh, Maple. I knew this was a wild cow chase. I think we ought to...” He turned...just in time to miss a long knife aimed straight at his heart. “Maple, what are you doing?”

“I...I don't know.” Maple lowered her arm, breathing heavily. She finally threw the knife down beside her. “I can't do it. I can't kill you. Especially after all the fun we had in Kansas City.”

Scott licked suddenly dry lips. “Kill me? Maple, why would you want to kill me? I swear, I'm sorry I ran out and left you with the check in that steak house in St. Louis. I sold two guys a new kind of hair tonic, and they decided to take off my head when it didn't work.”

She rolled her eyes. “That ain't it. Although I did always wonder what happened with the steak house. Scott, Pruitt hired me to kill you.”

Scott's amber eyes got even wider. “Pruitt? I know he'd stab anyone in the back if it would get him money, but...why me?”

“I ain't sure. Somethin' about you overwritin' his position and his inheritors.”

Scott narrowed his eyes. “He doesn't want me to get the Bar S or the money from Mom.”

“I don't know. He didn't tell me nothin'. All he said was he wanted me to stab ya an' bring him your heart in a box.” She shook her head. “I'm gettin' sick just thinkin' about it.”

Scott's hand reflexively went over his chest. “You and me both.”

Maple grabbed his arm. “Scotty, get outta here. You can't stay here. If Pruitt finds out I didn't kill you, he'll do worse things to both of us. He really wants you gone.”

“What about you, Maple?”

“I'll figure something out. I could give him an animal heart, or a fake heart.” She almost literally dragged him out of the cave. “Scott, go! Now! Before someone sees us out here. Run, Scotty. Find somewhere Pruitt ain't gonna look for ya.”

He finally climbed onto his horse. He gave her one last grin. “Maple...thanks. You're a real friend.”

She waved him on. “You're welcome, Scott. Now, get a move on, before I do decide to take out at least a piece of your hide for leavin' me in the lurch in St. Louis.”

She watched him as he galloped off. I'm glad I did that. He doesn't deserve a knife in his back. A slap in the face and a knee in his important parts, maybe, but not a knife. Those hurt! She frowned as the rapidly setting sun dissolved over the rocky cliffs. I hope he's ok out there. Some of those animals can get almost as nasty as Pruitt. And then, there's the Indians...

That Night, Pruitt's Office, Bar S Ranch

Maple didn't like the positively gleeful look on Pruitt's face when she arrived. “Did you do it?”

“Yeah, I did it.” She pulled out the box and the knife. “Here ya go.”

He pulled out a wad of bills, counted them, and slowly handed them to Maple. “Here you go, Miss LaMarsh, for a job well done. And you're certain he's dead?”

“Of course he is! I left his body way back in some random cave in the canyons. You'd have to be a prairie dog to dig that far.”

“Good.” He waved her away. “You may go now, Miss LaMarsh. Don't spend that all in one place.”

“Oh, don't worry. I won't.” Maple pocked the money and headed out the door. There's somethin' wrong with the whole thing. Scott's right. Why does Pruitt want him dead? Maybe I ought to do some figurin' out of my own...

Four Days Later, Canyons of Colorado

It was hot. Scott had never felt such blistering heat. The brilliant yellow sun beat down on him relentlessly. He'd managed to find a spring and get some water, but that had been over an hour ago. He was now hot again. He felt like he could be poured into a jar, like molasses. He wanted to melt. He'd never wanted anything so badly.

Usually, on a day this hot, he'd be in a hotel somewhere, gambling under a lazily turning fan, maybe with a pretty lady on his arm and a cold hard apple cider by his side. A lady as pretty as Betty Prince...no, he corrected him, no woman was as pretty as Betty Prince.

His horse had slowed to a crawl ages ago. He'd let Lightning drink from the spring that he found, but now, the horse was as tired and parched as he was. If he didn't find some kind of water soon, they'd both end up looking like the bleached bones scattered among the cacti and odd-shaped rocks.

So tired... He struggled to keep his eyes open. Why did Pruitt want to kill him? Was he getting too close to finding out the truth about his mother's death? And what about Betty? Did this have to do with all those people being run off their land? Was his mother killed to get her land? Would Pruitt try to hurt Betty, too?

He wiped his dripping brow on the back of his hand. “God, it's hot out here, Lightning,” he said to the golden stallion. “It's so...hot....”

His hands slipped from Lighting's reigns. He finally slid off the horse, landing face-first on the ground. So this is how it's all going to end. Dead of dehydration in the middle of the desert. I was born to the desert, and it looks like I'm going to die here.

He just barely looked up as he heard soft footfalls around the rocks. His bleary brown eyes took in a long, strong, red-brown leg, almost the same color as the clay in the creek near the Bar S, then strings of beads and feathers. He heard the buzzing of a strange, yet oddly familiar language around him. He finally passed out before he could figure out any more.

A Day Later, Walwalra Tribe Camp Site

Scott had no idea how long he was out. He no longer felt as hot or dry. Something soft surrounded his burned skin. When his eyes fluttered open, he realized he was looking around at animal pelts in desert shades of tan, soft yellow, and dark rock brown. He started to get up when a young man wearing feathers around his neck and in his long, straight black hair gently pushed Scott back down. He carried what looked like a basket of herbs and berried.

“Shhh.” The man was crushing some leaves that were in the basket. “You aren't well yet. Father says that you need rest, Scott Sherwood.”

Scott just barely raised an eyebrow. “How do you know my name?” His scratchy voice sounded more like the croak of a toad in the creek on the Bar S.

The man smiled at him. “The name of Sherwood is known to the Walwalras. Your father was good man. He always treated us well.”

Scott just barely smiled. “Dad always believed in being good to the Indians. Said they weren't any different than anyone else. They had their ways, and we had ours. A lot of people thought he was crazy, but he didn't listen. I remember playing with some of the kids when I was still in short pants.”

The man grinned impishly. “Do you remember a boy named Soaring Eagle? You used to play jokes on the ranch hands with him. We once painted the entire side of a house before your mother ran over and told us we were painting someone else's house.”

Scott laughed weakly. “Soaring Eagle, is that you?” He shook his head. “I haven't seen you in years. How's your dad, and those brothers of yours?”

“My brothers are fine. Two are warriors now. They're out hunting elk. One is a diplomat in Denver for tribal relations.” He poured a reddish water from a jug. “Father's with the tribal elders, but I'm sure he'll want to see you as soon as you're well. He loved and respected your father. He let him hunt on his land, as long as we didn't eat cattle.”

“What about you, Soaring Eagle?”

He sloshed the water and leaves around in the bowl. “I am not like my brothers. I never had the heart to harm a living creature, and I have always been interested in the plants we see on our journeys. I am the tribal healer and medicine man.”

Scott leaned back. “Good, then I can trust you. If you're the tribe's doctor, you know what you're doin'.”

Soaring Eagle chuckled. “Father would skin me like buffalo hide if I harmed you!” He brought the bowl to Scott. “Here. Drink this. It'll help bring back your strength.”

Scott gulped it first, until he started coughing. Soaring Eagle shook his head. “Sip it! Don't drink so fast. You're as bad as my sons. They want to gulp it all down, too.”

“You have kids.” Scott's smile was weary. “How many?”

“Two boys and a girl. They grow like weeds, Scott. You'll probably meet them later. Dad wants to see you as soon as you're well.”

“Of course.” Scott yawned. “I guess...tired...I'm so tired. Pruitt...I have to run away....Betty...Mom...run away...so tired...” His eyes fluttered, then shut. His breathing became more even.

Soaring Eagle frowned as he gathered the now-empty bowl. Scott had been muttering to himself in his sleep ever since they found him. He didn't really understand most of it. His father might be able to get more out of him when he was recovered.

The Next Day, the Chief's Tent

Scott felt well enough by the next afternoon to greet Chief Grayhawk, Soaring Eagle's father. He borrowed a buckskin jacket and trousers from Soaring Eagle. Some of the braves were rather amused that Scott insisted on wearing the jacket over his worn black shirt. When Soaring Eagle asked him about it, he just shrugged. “I burn easily.”

Chief Grayhawk had the largest tent in the encampment. Scott had always liked him. He was a tall, strong man with a broad face and a wise manner. He used to bounce Scott on his knee and tell him stories of his years as a warrior fighting other local tribes like the Shoshone and the Ute when Scott was barely knee-high to his long spear. Scott bowed before him, letting the Chief finish his pipe. “Hi, Joe. Have any good stories for me?”

Joseph Grayhawk patted the buffalo pelt next to him. “Hello there, Scott. Sit down right here.” Scott did so. “So, you've finally come home.”

“It wasn't my original plan.” He frowned. “Mom's dead, Joe. They say it was an accident. A rattlesnake got into the house.” He shook his head. “I don't believe them. Mom knew about rattlesnakes. Someone killed her for the Bar S' land.”

Joe took a drag from his pipe. “We've had similar problems, Scott. A week ago, we were attacked by men who wanted us off our hunting lands.”

“The Professor's Gang.”

“I don't know what they called. I only know they were brutal. Good thing my sons had just come back from a hunting expedition and were able to drive them off. Some men were injured, and the women and children were frightened, but we lost no lives.” He frowned. “They did burn some of our teepees, but they can be replaced. My sons want to move on, find another place to hunt.” He shook his head. “Where? This is our home. It was our ancestors' home, and their ancestors' home. We're some of the lucky ones. The locals may not trust us, but they know we prefer hunting to war. As long as we don't eat their cattle, they let us be.”

Scott looked around. “I never really thought much of this land. All I ever wanted was to leave.”

Joe Grayhawk took out his pipe. “That's because you have a wandering spirit, like your father. I heard stories about Kevin Sherwood when he first came to Colorado from settlers who passed through our land. He was a no-account, they all said. A gambler, scoundrel, swindler. No one could trust him. He could charm an elk into giving him the antlers on their heads. He'd never settle down, never find a place he could call his own.”

Scott grinned. “I know this story. Then he met Mom, and he fell head-over-heels for her. Mom was a rancher's daughter, he was the snake oil salesman. He thought he was selling them on that phony snake oil concoction, but she was really sizing him up for marriage.”

“Your father did well for himself, Scott. He and your mother loved each other deeply. They thought they'd never have a child. Fiona came to our people, praying to her gods and ours for a child with hair as black as the trees around the ranch, skin as soft and white as the snow on the mountaintops, eyes the color of the rich soil of the cliffs.” Joe Grayhawk leaned back, lost in memories. “Your father had a huge pow-wow when you were born, Scott. People came from miles around to see their new son and watch our tribal dances. I even took part in a few.” He patted Scott's hand. “They even let me give you the blessings of our gods.”

Scott sighed. “I felt blessed, until recently. Joe, I think Mom was attacked by a rattlesnake. A human one. I don't know how Rollie Pruitt got her to marry him, but I think he did it because he wanted her lands. He killed her, or had her killed, to get the Bar S. I just wish I knew why.”

Joe watched the smoke rings from his pipe drift lazily in the cornflower-blue sky. “We did hear about Fiona's marriage and death. I've been wondering about it myself. Her death was far too sudden.”

“I think so, too.” Scott looked back towards the hills. “I have to find out, but I can't go back to the Bar S. Pruitt knows I know, or at least that I'm suspicious of him. He tried to have me killed. Fortunately, the lady he hired was a friend of mine and let me go.” He sighed. “Betty needs my help, and I need to find out what happened to Mom.”

Joe Grayhawk raised his eyebrows. “Betty? Is she your sweetheart?”

Scott shook his head, but his face was a little dreamy. “Nahh. She's a reporter for the local newspaper. She's investigating all the land grabbing in the area. She thinks Pruitt's behind it. I wouldn't put it past him.”

“There's more than that.” Joe Grayhawk blew smoke rings into the brilliant blue sky. “The last time I saw that look on a man's face, your father just told me how he felt about your mother.”

“Joe...she's beautiful. Beautiful, smart, sweet, tough....she's everything I've ever wanted in a woman. I might even love her.” He frowned. “But she thinks I'm just a ranch hand for Pruitt.”

“Prove your feelings to her, Scott.” The old chief briefly removed the pipe from his mouth. “Your father did when he courted your mother. He swore he'd give up get-rich-quick schemes and swindling people...and he mostly did.”

“Yeah.” Scott stood. “Joe, thank you for havin' me, but I can't stay here. Pruitt's boys are still after me, and I have to figure out what happened to Mom. If Betty's writing that article, she may be in danger, too.”

Joe nodded. “I understand, Scott.” He looked up with one of his small, knowing smiles. “How are you with acting?”

“I've never acted professionally, but I'm pretty good at convincing people to do things, and being someone else when they aren't convinced. Why?”

“My men spotted the Valiant Journey Acting Troupe passing through Ordway and Rocky Ford on their way to Pueblo. Maybe you could join up with them. What better way to hide than to be someone else? Even if they don't take you as an actor, you could do another job, work with the scenery or the horses.”

“That's not a bad idea, if I can get them to take me.” Scott stood and bowed. “Thanks, Joe. You're still a great friend.”

“Anytime, Scott. Your horse is with the other horses out by the brook. My grandsons have been taking care of him. We'll outfit you with food and supplies for your journey, too. If they haven't gone far, they should be about a day's ride from here.”

Scott nodded. “All right. Thanks again.” He patted Chief Grayhawk's shoulder and headed off to find Lightning.

Joe Grayhawk shook his head and looked to the sky. “There's so much darkness surrounding him, Kevin. He's much like you were. Twice as smart, though. He'll figure it out.” He took another puff on his pipe. “I hope.”

Scott White and the Seven Actors, Part 4

Two Days Later, Valiant Journey Acting Troupe Carriages

Scott caught up with the troupe around Olney Springs. The two carriages were colorful affairs, painted red and gold, with ornate gingerbread-like roofs. They were parked by a lake just outside of town. The townspeople are probably too good to let them stay within city limits, Scott thought in disgust. If it were the Bar S, Mom wouldn't have any problems giving them shelter. She never minded people spending the night on our grounds.

He didn't see anyone around. Maybe they're rehearsing a play somewhere. He peered inside one of the carriages. “Hello? Anyone home?”

There was food – fruit, cheese, rolls, and meat - set up on a small table in the center of the main carriage. On one end was a tipsy stack of sheet music and scripts and a rack of sequined costumes. On the other end were three beds that were built into the wall. In between were pans used for dishes and for cooking food. Scott sniffed. It all smelled so good to him. He'd eaten his last bit of dried beef the night before, and he was ravenous. He grabbed a roll from a basket. “I don't think they'd mind if I borrowed one.” He drank a little of one of the glasses of lemonade that was at the head of the table. He took an apple, too.

He looked around, yawning. He could barely keep his eyes open. “I need to rest my eyes for a second,” he murmured to himself. “I'll wake up long before they arrive.” He tossed the apple core out a window for Lightning's snack, then lay down on one of the bunks. It'll just be a few minutes... He was so worn out, he was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

What he didn't know was the owners of the Valiant Journey Acting Troupe – Miss Hilary Booth and her sometime-husband Jeff Singer – were, in fact, on their way back from chasing off what they thought were bank creditors. The rest of the troupe followed behind them. They were a small troupe, just three actors, two musicians, the young stagehand, and the elderly caretaker, but Hilary was determined that someday, they would be the finest troupe of performers this side of the Mississippi. After all, if she could conquer Broadway, a small, rambunctious town like Denver shouldn't be a problem.

Mackie Bloom, the troupe's diminutive character actor, was the first one to realize something was amiss. He nodded at the golden stallion cropping grass near the first carriage. “Hey, whose horse is that? She's a nice little filly.”

C.J McHugh, the stage hand who helped old Tom Eldridge deal with the horses, frowned. “I don't recognize her. She's not one of our ponies.”

“Then she must be someone else's,” added the kindly old jack-of-all-trades who also acted as a cook and housekeeper for the troupe.

“Too bad,” said Eugenia Bremer, the plump, cheerful pianist and seamstress. “She's an awfully pretty horse. Her fur is the color of the gold that's supposed to be in the hills.”

Hilary turned to her tall, handsome leading man husband. “Jeffrey, do you think someone's robbing the carriages?”

“I hope not.” Jeff Singer climbed off his horse. “They're going to be disappointed if they are. We have nothing for them to steal but some old sets and costumes.” He looked at the little man playing the harmonica behind him. “Why don't you and I check it out first, Mr. Foley?”

Mr. Foley shook his head and started going the other way, but Hilary pushed him ahead. “I'm sure it's just a vagrant looking for free meal.”

“I don't know, Hilary.” Mackie and Mr. Eldridge were inspecting the horse. Mackie stroked her mane. “This is a nice horse someone has here. She comes from good stock. Unless the vagrant stole her, she doesn't belong to any old desert tramp.”

Mr. Eldridge was feeding the horse an apple core. “She's hungry, too. She very nearly ate this in one gulp! Not very good manners, but a good appetite.”

Hilary made a face. “Which one of you have been throwing their leftovers out the window? You know that attracts flies and bugs and other creepy-crawly things I don't like.”

Mackie made a face. “Geez Hilary, we know how you feel about that.”

Jeff finally took Mr. Foley by the arm. He pulled out the prop gun he kept on his person to scare off bill collectors. Mr. Foley held a pole from their scenery over his head. “Come on.”

The two men and Mackie entered the carriage. Jeff took a quick look around. “Everything seems to be all right.”

Mackie frowned, holding up a lemonade glass. “Hey, which one of you guys been drinkin' outta my glass?” He nudged the roll basket. “I think one of these is missing, too. And no, I didn't eat it. I didn't get a chance to eat anything before Hilary thought she heard the bill collectors.”

Mr. Foley was the first one to see the lump in the bed. He gasped and grabbed at Jeff's sleeve. “What is it?” Foley tugged Jeff over to the first bed near the table.

The little man poked at the lump. It groaned. “Go 'way.”

“Foley, wake him up.” Jeff pointed the gun at the lump as Foley shook him awake. “Ok, who are you, and what are you doing here?”

The first thing a bleary-eyed Scott Sherwood saw was the barrel of a gun right between his eyes. “If you'll get that thing out of my face, I'll tell you.”

“Are you robbing us?” added Mackie, who held what he hoped was a very threatening-looking butter knife.

Scott laughed. “Robbing you? No way.” He slowly sat up, stretching. “Actually, I wanted to ask you if you had any vacancies.”

Jeff moved the gun from the stranger's face, but continued to aim it at him. “Vacancies?” Jeff thought he was a rather odd-looking man. He was mostly dressed like a Native or a cowboy, in fringed buckskin trousers and a matching leather jacket, but he had a faded black shirt on under the jacket. A battered suede cowboy hat with a black band had fallen over his thick, longish black and silver hair. A leather holster held a long-handled knife. He might actually be rather good-looking when he shaved off the two-day growth and washed his grimy face.

Mackie stepped back. “You're not going to hurt us?”

He got to his feet. “Nahhh. I want to join you. You might say I'm on the run.”

Jeff lowered the prop gun. “From what?”

Scott scratched his back. “There's this guy who's after me. My stepfather, actually. He thinks I know too much about...well, let's just say he doesn't like me very much.”

The others had poked their heads in. “What's going on here?” Hilary Booth swept in first. She made a face at Scott's bedraggled appearance. “I told you it was a desert tramp.”

Jeff moved aside. “Sir, this is my wife, Hilary Booth. She's the head of this troupe. If you want a job, she's the one you talk to.”

Hilary looked over his fringed jacket and tattered and faded shirt. “We don't hire vagrants.”

“I'm not a vagrant.” Scott stood. “All I want is a job, lady. I don't care what it is.”

“Do you have any experience in the theater?”

Scott shrugged. “I never really took to the legitimate stage. All that fancy talk. Now vaudeville, that's where the real fun is. I used to spend a lot of time at vaudeville houses when I...when I traveled.”

“Have you ever done any acting before?”

He gave her his most charming smile. “I've convinced people I'm something I'm not.”

“He looks like he's strong enough to move scenery,” Eugenia put in. “And he seems like a nice enough young man. He hasn't really hurt anybody.”

Mr. Foley opened his mouth to ask if he knew any music, but C.J got there first. “I could use some help building and striking the sets. I'd really rather concentrate on the special effects, anyway. I find the electrical effects they're starting to use in some newer theaters really interesting.”

Eugenia saw the look on Mr. Foley's face. “What about music? Can you play an instrument?”

Scott nodded. “I took piano lessons for most of my childhood. My mother thought it would make a gentleman out of me. I'm no virtuoso, but I can pick out a tune.”

Jeff turned to his wife. “The final decision is yours, Hilary, but I say we take him. We really could use another hand.”

“Yeah,” Mackie added. “I can stop playing all seven dwarfs when we do Snow White for the kiddies.”

“And his horse likes him,” Mr. Eldridge puts in. “You can always tell a man by how he treats his horse. Or his mother. I can't remember which.”

Hilary sighed. “All right. We need another actor badly.” She gave Scott a charming smile of her own. “And I'm sure this fellow can act as badly as anyone else in Colorado.”

Scott chuckled. “Thanks, Miss Hildy.”

Hilary frowned. “My name is Hilary Booth. Don't make me regret hiring you. Now, you know my name, but we don't know yours.”

“Scott...” He quickly looked around the carriage. His eye caught a poster for that performance of Snow White the little man with the graying mustache mentioned. “Scott White. My name is Scott White.”

“Good.” Mackie grinned. “Now that we have a new member, why don't we...”

That was when gunshots were heard outside. “Come out here, Singer!” hollered a gruff, whiskey-fueled voice from outside.

Eugenia saw them out the window. “Oh Miss Hilary, it's those nasty bill collectors again!”

Scott's hand went to the handle of his knife. “Bill collectors?”

Hilary nodded. “These men have been hounding us for weeks to pay the money we owe on the carriages and horses. Unfortunately, business has been rather poor lately. These backwoods farmers wouldn't know a good performance of Hamlet if the ghost of his father rose up and appeared in the front row.”

Scott and Mackie peered out the same window. The men were dressed as cowboys, in chaps and old shirts like him, but they were grimy and greasy. The beard on the largest one was flecked with this morning's meal. They looked like a couple of grumpy bears who were awaken from hibernation a month too early.

“Get your skinny lil' hide out here! We want those carriages n' horses, an' we want 'em now!” The largest one shot the curls off the top of the wagon's roof. “Or we'll be shootin' all them actin' folks inside next.”

Scott looked at Jeff. “Are they always this pleasant?”

“Usually, they just show up screaming threats.”

Scott pulled out his long, silvery knife with the intricately carved handle. He grinned. “I have a plan.” He looked the bag of flour on the floor and an old purple robe hanging on the side of the wagon. “How about we give them some real ghosts?”

The three men were more than a little surprised when only one emerged...and he was a bit familiar to the largest. Frank had seen the cowboy in the leather jacket somewhere before. “Are you varmints comin' out, or are we gonna have to get ugly with all them nice people?”

“Now fellas, there's no need for all these threats.” Scott shook his head. “I'm just dispelling the ghosts.”

One of the men gulped and looked at Frank. “Gh..gh...ghosts?” He gasped. “There ain't really ghosts around these parts, are there?”

“'Course there ain't. That's ol' wives tales.”

One of the men gulped. “But I ain't married!”

Frank glared at Scott. “There ain't no ghosts in there, ya sidewindin' snake. Are you gonna let us in, or are we gonna have to take that knife an' use it to cut pieces of your hide bit by bit?”

That's when creatures in ragged clothing, covered in grainy white, floated behind him, moaning and groaning. Scott gasped...though in truth, he was trying not to laugh. “He's the ghosts! They've come for us! Save yourselves!” He screamed as the tallest with the curliest hair threw white powder at him.

That was enough for two of the men. They turned their horses around and galloped off into Olney Springs. Frank wasn't amused. “I don't think these are ghosts. There ain't no such things as ghosts.”

A small, elderly man who was covered in white from head to toe stood behind him. “Oh, you'd be surprised, young man.”

He turned around...to see a short man with a bristling mustache on his other side. “Yeah. We might decide to get rid of ya now. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe we'll just play wit' ya for a little while, then stab ya in the back when ya ain't lookin'.”

The taller woman in the long, heavy plum-colored cloak almost floated over to him. “You will be one of us. We will take you with us to the ethereal plane, where the gods of judgment will either ascend you to the pearly gates of eternal waking bliss, or hurl you into the fiery reaches of the darkest corners of the most evil sides of hell and damnation. Or have I said too much?”

Scott came over...now with white powder on him, too. He lifted his knife over Frank. “You are one of us.”

Frank screamed as the group chanted around him. He took off after his friends, shrieking about ghosts all the way. The last thing on his mind was how he'd seen the guy with the knife before...

Scott laughed and shook the flour out of his hair. “What a bunch of dopes! I can't believe they fell for that.”

Eugenia brushed the flour off her tawny yellow bun. “That idea was brilliant, Mr. White!”

Jeff and Hilary were brushing each other off. Clouds of white dust flew around Hilary's cloak. “Nice scheme there, Scotty.”

“Thanks, Hildy.”

Hilary shook her head. “First of all, Mr. White, if you're going to work with us, it's Hilary. It has to be Hilary.”

Scott just nodded with a smile. “Hilary.”

C.J had taken a brush to his jacket. “Can we eat now?”

Mackie was brushing the flour out of his mustache. “Yeah. I'm so hungry, I could even eat Hilary's pasta and ketchup.”

“Right now,” Scott said with a small grin, “I'd be willing to eat just about anything.”

Mr. Eldridge was still all white. “This should suit you.”

Scott chuckled and Hilary made a face as they all headed indoors to eat what remained of their meal.

The Office at the Bar S Ranch, the Next Day

Pruitt growled at the three ham-sized men standing in front of his desk. “It was a simple assignment. You were just supposed to gather the money that acting troupe owes us. If you couldn't get money, I wanted their carriages and horses. And yet you come back here with wild tales about ghosts!”

Frank nodded. “Yeah, they were all ghosts, Mr. Pruitt, sir! They floated around me, chantin' an' screamin' like banshees. They even turned that one guy with the black hair into a ghost, right in front of us!” Frank screwed up his face like he could actually think. “Ya know, that guy was kinda familiar. I seen him someplace before. He must be a new member of the actin' troupe.”

Pruitt raised his eyebrows. “I wasn't aware that they were holding auditions. From what I gather, they can barely afford the three actors they have.”

The second man nodded. “He weren't too tall, an' he wore all leather, like an Injun, an' he had long black hair like an' Injun, but he weren't no Injun. He was too small' in big around to be an Injun.”

“Yeah,” Frank added. “He looked a lot like that new ranch hand with the dark hair you hired a few months ago. The one who disappeared after he went off with that purty red-haired lady.”

Pruitt could barely contain his fury. “He's alive!” He glared at the three men. “That 'ghost' was my swindler stepson Scott Sherwood. He tricked you, and probably tricked them, too.”

Frank gave him a gap-toothed smirk. “Ya want us to get rid of him, boss?”

“Yes, but be more subtle about it than you were with getting money from the theater company.” He could see the blank expressions on their faces at the word “subtle.” “Oh, for heaven's sake, make it look like an accident! Just don't shoot him. That's too messy.” He looked at the rapidly darkening sky. “It's too late to go out tonight. Start tomorrow. Ask around where the troupe's been staying. I doubt they'll be in one place for too long. My stepson may have already told them about the attempt on his life.”

“Right, boss.” The trio stumbled out as Priscilla Cosgrave pushed her way in.

“I wish you wouldn't deal with low-lives like that.” Miss Cosgrave wrinkled her nose at the pungent fragrance that wafted from their oversized persons. “They'll give you a bad name.”

“All I care about is that they do their duty.” He turned to his faithful secretary. “Miss Cosgrave, would you know where Miss LaMarsh went to after she brought us the box with my stepson's heart?”

“Not a clue, R.P, and I don't care. I don't like that young woman. She's tries to act tough, but I think underneath, her heart is a lot softer than a bounty hunter's should be.”

“It would seem she lied about my swindling stepson's tragic passing.” He handed her the box that Maple had said contained Scott's heart. “Here. Ask some of the ranch hands who work with the cattle whether or not this is a human heart, or that of an animal. I'm beginning to think Miss LaMarsh played a little joke on us.” He narrowed his eyes. “I don't like jokes. After you talk to him, I'll send some of the boys after Miss LaMarsh. I have a few questions for that so-called bounty hunter.”

Scott White and the Seven Actors, Part 5

A Week Later, Road Along the Arkansas River

Scott Sherwood wouldn't have believed it even a few months ago, but he was beginning to enjoy being a member of an acting troupe. Before he came home, he'd always been a lone wolf, dashing from place to place, never staying anywhere long enough to create ties. He was surprised at how much he was learning. Jeff Singer taught him about voice projection. C.J showed him how the sets worked, how to slide them in and out and make them look almost real. Mackie showed him how to be anyone he could imagine, from a grumpy dwarf to a noble king. Eugenia and Mr. Foley helped him with the props and gave him new musical pieces to learn. Mr. Eldridge had great stories about how he'd first come to Colorado as a settler with a wife and three children. Even Hilary Booth seemed to be warming up to him.

For all the wonderful moments on the stage, when he was in costume and lost in the world of fairy tales or Shakespeare, there were difficult times as well. The troupe was small and not well-funded. Jeff said one man had stolen the till in Crowley, which is why they were behind on their bills. People often didn't trust actors, either. They were frequently accused of stealing everything from cattle to farmer's daughters. Scott's trick with the ghosts didn't work everywhere. They'd been run out of one town where a farmer swore they stole his pigs. It was more likely that a ranch hand stole his pigs, or they just ran away, but people believed him just the same.

A few days after the pig incident, Scott, Mackie, and Jeff were on their way back to the carriages from a nearby town. They'd been picking up supplies for costumes and sets, ribbons and fabric and lace and braid and other fine trim. Scott found pearly bolts of satin in blue and yellow that might make a good costume for Hilary when she played the title character of Snow White. She complained that the dark green dress she wore now was too plain and made her look too old to pull off looking like a young girl.

It was Mackie who heard the rustlers. Mackie's ears had been pricked ever since they left town. “I swear we're being followed,” he fussed. “I know I've heard horses behind us for miles.”

“That's your imagination talking, Mackie,” Jeff scolded. Scott liked the younger man. For all his ego and preening, he had a good heart and a good head on his shoulders. He was genuinely devoted to Hilary, despite their occasional heated spats over billing or their money woes.

“I don't know, Jeff.” Scott slowed Lightning to a trot. “I've been hearin' somethin', too. It's not the Indians. They've mostly cleared out of this area.”

The trees surrounding the river seemed to magnify every sound. Mackie's whimper almost matched that of his pony Colonel Moore. “I think we ought to get away from the river. At least the land will be more open there.”

“Yeah,” Scott started, “I think so, too.” He began to turn Lightning from the river towards the hills.

Jeff shook his head. “You're making a mountain out of a...” A bullet hit the tree nearest to Jeff, splintering the wood inches from his cheek.

Mackie let out a screech as four men rode from behind bushes and trees. “It's an ambush!”

Scott pulled out his gun. “Come on, guys. We've gotta hold them off.”

Jeff pulled out his own pistol. “At least long enough to get out of the woods.” He loaded the pistol as quickly as he could. “I wonder what they want? It's not as if lace trim and sequins are valuable.”

“Maybe they're a rival acting troupe who want to steal our costumes for their own company!” Mackie wailed as he pulled out a smaller pistol.

Scott had already taken a few shots at the goons. “I doubt it. These guys look like they can't read past the first grade primer. They probably think Hamlet is something you eat with beans and rice.”

Jeff struggled with two of the goons, who were trying to get him off his horse. Mackie had pulled Colonel Moore behind some heavy brush and was attempting to take down two more, though he wasn't a very good shot. His bullets were more likely to end up in trees and on the ground.

Scott saw one of the goons throw Jeff off his horse Brent. “Jeff!” He leaped off Lighting and, dodging Mackie's stray bullets, hurried over to his friend.

He ran straight into an immovable object...namely, Frank's barrel chest. “Goin' somewhere, Mr. Ghost?”

“Yes!” Scott snapped. “I'm gonna help my buddy there, before your oversized pieces of beef flatten him into a flapjack. If you don't move, I'll have to get rough with ya.”

“That's what you think, Mr. Ghost.” Scott had no time to react. Frank's sausage-like fingers yanked his arms behind his back, binding them with colorful silk scarves. Another set of thick hands looped scarves around Scott's neck and pulled them tightly. Scott collapsed to his knees, struggling to pull free from Frank's vice-like grip. Spots began to swim in front of his eyes. His lungs were bursting.

That was when something shiny and golden came down over Frank's head. He was distracted long enough to let Scott go. The dark-haired man gasped, trying to shake off the length of colorful silk that threatened to choke him. His head swam. He finally fainted on a bed of moss.

When he came to, he was looking into a pair of concerned liquid brown eyes. Lightning nudged her master. Mackie was unwinding the scarves from his neck. Jeff, his right eye now an interesting shade of purple-black, was freeing his hands.

“You ok, Scotty?” Mackie got the last of the scarves free. “Those guys really had it in for you!”

“Yeah, they did.” Jeff frowned. “Mackie somehow managed to get two of them in the arm. The others took off after I got the biggest one over the head with the curtain rod.” He held up a bent brass rod. “Hilary's not going to be happy, but we might be able to get a blacksmith somewhere to fix it.”

Scott managed to get on his knees. “Those were...the same guys...who tried to take...your carriages. Probably...my stepfather's...men. Want to kill me...I know too much...”

Jeff and Mackie helped him to his feet. “Are you gonna be ok?” Mackie asked with genuine concern.

Scott nodded. “Yeah. I'm fine. I just needed to catch my breath.”

“Let's get out of here.” Jeff lead Scott back to the horses. “Stay between us, just in case anyone else tries anything.”

Scott saluted him. “Yes, sir.” Mackie chuckled and Jeff rolled his eyes as they climbed onto their horses and wrote out of the woods.

The Office at the Bar S, Later That Evening

Rollie Pruitt was not happy when the men gave him their report. “I gave you a simple job. Just kill him and make it look like an accident! Not only did you not kill him, but the acting troupe he's staying with now knows there's someone after him. They'll be watching over him like a hawk.” He glared at them. “You're all dismissed.”

Cosgrave came in as the men were leaving. “What's wrong, R.P? What did those men say about the heart in the box?”

Pruitt's lip curled. “It would seem Miss LaMarsh lied to us. The heart in the box is that of an old sow who was slaughtered for bacon the same day I sent her to eliminate Sherwood.” He turned to his most loyal and trusted employee. “Miss Cosgrave, how are you with acting?”

“I used to appear as an angel in our church's nativity pageant ever year as a child.”

“That stepson of mine is becoming a nuisance. It seems he managed to escape the grasp of my men, thanks to two of his new friends. He's still more alive than he should be.” He was going through his desk. “It should be in here somewhere...”

Cosgrave sat at her desk. “What are you looking for?”

“Aha!” Pruitt finally pulled out what appeared to be a simple wooden comb, the kind that could be purchased in any general store for five cents. “I know how to eliminate Sherwood without any bloodshed or anyone the wiser.”

“How do you plan on doing that, R.P? You know he's clever. He might figure it out. And even if he does, one of the members of the acting troupe might find him.”

“Oh, but they'll never expect this.” He turned to Cosgrave. “We'll dress you as a peddler, selling things for the troupe.” He waved the comb. “Including this for that shining dark hair of my stepson's.” He smirked. “When he puts this those ebony locks...he'll get a dose of a lot more than hair oil.”

Cosgrave couldn't help shuddering at her boss's unsettling laughter.