Geme knew he couldn't draw his gun. The minute he cleared leather, people were going to die, starting with Reverend Tilson. But then, he noticed that the outlaw leader's horse was standing very close to where Champion quietly stood, still wearing his silver-studded saddle and ground tied by his reins.

In the west, most well-trained cow ponies are taught to stand still when both their reins are left trailing on the ground, because there isn't always time to tie a horse, when a cowboy needed to get off in a hurry to brand or doctor some cattle. Gene had not bothered to picket his horse out to graze with the others, because he'd volunteered to take the first watch riding night herd on the wagon trains' cattle, to keep them from straying too far.

Champion had his ears up, and was alert, watching Gene closely. As the outlaw leader aimed the pistol at Reverend Tilson, Gene gave a particular sort of whistle that Champion knew. The glossy copper-colored horse with the white face and golden mane and tail was clever. Champion recognized Gene's signal, and abruptly kicked out with both his hind feet, barely missing the outlaw leader's horse!

The outlaw leader was thrown off balance, when his startled horse responded by bucking. In trying to stay on, he lost hold of his gun, and it thudded into the dirt. The other outlaws were kept busy, trying to avoid their leader's fractious horse. Gene used the distraction to pull his own pistol.

After a minute, all the outlaw's horses calmed down, and the leader of the gang frowned when he saw that the tables had turned, and that Gene had the drop on him, now. Not only Gene, but Pat as well. Pat had picked up his Winchester repeating rifle, and was aiming it squarely at the middle of the knot of riders.

"I think maybe you fellas' better hightail it outta' here." Gene drawled calmly, "Before somebody gets hurt. In the morning, we'll be moving on west, and by tomorrow night, we'll be off your so-called range, and no harm done. And we won't be paying any tolls to do it."

The outlaw leader scowled at Gene. He knew that they'd come to what some folks in the west referred to as a 'Mexican stand-off.' He could order his men to kill this man, but then he'd probably be shot dead, in return.

"This is Circle Y land you all are tresspassin' on!" The outlaw leader shouted, loud enough for everyone to hear. "And I say you pay a toll, or you turn back and go home, right now, tonight! If me or any of my men catch you on our range tomorrow, or anywhere near Sage Creek, you'll pay us ten dollars a head for your horses and cattle, and fifty dollars for each person, or we'll shoot all your livestock and burn all your wagons. You got that, pilgrims?"

Without another word, the outlaw leader wheeled his horse around, and he and his band galloped away into the night, leaving nothing behind but a cloud of dust. Pat bent down and picked up the outlaw's fallen pistol.

"Be pretty hard to shoot anybody without this." he remarked dryly.

The settlers had gathered around Reverend Tilson, and were muttering amongst themselves worriedly. They'd been prepared for storms, Indian attacks, sickness and drought, but nothing like this. They turned to the reverend for his guidance, but for once, he had nothing to say.

Suddenly, a new figure emerged from the crown. It was reverend Tilson's daughter. With her sunbonnet off, her red hair shown in the firelight, her finely boned, strong face turned towards the milling crowd of uneasy settlers.

"Listen to me, all of you!" she shouted to them. The people, men and their wives, quieted down and turned hopeful faces towards the girl. "We've come this far, to settle a land and make a new life for ourselves. We want nice homes and a better future for our children, but we can't get that, if we bow down to outlaws and ruffians, or run away from every tinhorn bully we meet! If we do that, the west will never be settled, it will always be full of hate and violence, and then, I ask you to think; were would this great country of ours be, if that happened?"

"But, how can we fight so many?" An old farmer at the back of the crowd asked."We're not gun fighters or soldiers. We know how to plow the land and use tools, we wouldn't stand a chance shooting it out with these outlaws!"

A chorus of muttered agreement rippled through the crowd, and the reverend's daughter looked at her father, helplessly. He refused to meet her eyes, his whole posture suddenly seeming to have been deflated. The stern old man now only looked old and tired, like he wanted to flee into his wagon and curl up in his blankets.

"You folk's have got nothing to worry about." Gene announced.

"Er--they don't?" Pat asked tentatively, worry creasing his face. He had a sudden bad feeling he knew where gene was going with this.

"We're going on, and no gang of outlaws posing as legitimate ranchers, are going to stop us." Gene said firmly.

"Yeah? Well, who's going to stop them outlaws?" The old farmer asked.

"I am!" Gene answered.

"Oh hoss fritters," Pat moaned to himself. "That's what I was afraid he was gonna' say."