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vote themselves into authority," Valasquez replied as she scabbarded her rifle. "Unfortunately, due to the peculiar laws of our republic, I have so little authority to abuse. In any other country I could have used my position to seize Specht's land. My engineers tell me there's rock oil beneath it. But now I believe Mister Specht will be forced to sell the parcel to compensate for tonight's losses. I will be the buyer."
                  "Every garden has its serpents." Lorenzo spat water and grit. "And what about me? Do I keep my fifty percent?"
                  Delaney picked his nails with his Bowie. The others waited, gunstocks on their hips or hands near their belts. Lorenzo knew his six-shooter was empty, his cartridges as full of the Rio Grande as he was.
                  Valasquez appraised him. Something there, in those eyes. In the firelight. Then she turned, undid a horse's saddlebag, and tossed a lump of clothing onto the ground.
                  "Why don't you step out of those wet things and we'll discuss it," she said. "It's a hundred miles to Laredo."
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    We The People
    by Dan Gainor
     
    May 17, 1998
                  The wind shifted and brought the smell of death.
                  Nathan wasn’t sure which of them smelled it first—the horse or him. Madey was a 9-year-old mare that didn’t grow skittish easily. That meant there was something else Nathan didn’t notice. Something else on the wind.
                  The .30-.30 Henry came out of the leather scabbard with a nearly silent whoosh. The lever-action rifle was a lot like the man who held it—merely middle-aged, but a product of another era. Nathan liked the rifle and loved the archaic image of a man, a horse, and a gun—all straight out of the Old West.
                  Nathan urged the horse forward slowly, eyeing the tree line up ahead. The nearest one of his ranch hands was back with the herd. If trouble came visiting, he was on his own.
                  Madey got reluctant the closer they got to the trees. Nathan climbed off slowly, keeping a firm hold on the reins in his left hand, with the Henry in his right. What remained of the body was drawing flies and stinking all to hell. It didn’t look like they had interrupted anyone’s dinner, but clearly something had ripped the cow’s throat out and eaten much of meat.
                  From the looks of things, Nathan figured a wolf. He hated wolves. Every rancher hated wolves. Every sane human being hated the sneaky, cattle-killing bastards. By every “sane” human, Nathan naturally left out the eco-weenies who screamed every time cattlemen protected their herds. Montana was covered by the stupid Endangered Species regulations, but if the wolves attacked him, he wasn’t going to worry about regs. Unfortunately, word might get out. Government hassle was hassle no man needed.
                  A quick glance around the body told him all he needed to know. Not a wolf. Wolves . At least two, maybe more. Forget Hollywood, wolves weren’t always the cute and friendly little movie stars that idiots like Kevin Costner got to dance with. Adult wolves were trouble. And from the size of those paw prints, one of these wolves was a force to be reckoned with.
                  Madey saw the wolf before her master, but her reaction was enough. The horse moved left as a gray patch raced quickly through the brush toward them. Nathan gripped the rifle firmly to his shoulder and fired twice, working the lever just like his daddy had taught him 40 years before. The wolf dropped before it could pounce on its newfound prey. The first shot took it in the side. The second had gone clean through the skull. It was dead as it hit the ground.
                  It wasn’t alone.
                  Another wolf came flying out of the