text: 17
  
  The next few months passed quickly, and they all endured another Dakota winter. Grit worked hard getting cords and cords of wood stacked along the banks of the river. Colleen tried to tell Grit to slow down and not work so hard, but he was like a man possessed. If there was daylight, he worked and Colleen fed him huge meals to fend off the cold and maintain his weight.
  
  Paulie came home for Christmas and brought a letter for Colleen telling her she'd been accepted into the university. Paulie helped with the cutting of wood, and Astrid spent every minute she could with Paulie, whether he was inside or outside, and she was saddened once more to see him leave.
  
  In the spring, the riverboats came to buy hundreds of cords of wood. And with the riverboats came lots of travelers, on horseback, on foot and in wagons traveling to the Black Hills in search of the riches that the eastern newspapers described in expansive terms. Grit would often wave and occasionally speak to the gold-seekers, but mostly he ignored them.
  
  Paulie arrived back home in early June, and he went to work as if he'd never left. He'd grown two inches and filled out in the last year. His skill with the axes was as good as it had ever been, and he was stronger, but his hands blistered, and he had to wear gloves until his hands developed callouses.
  
  In late summer, they found they'd earned nearly $5,000, and they finally shut it all down and got ready to leave for good in late August. The whole family packed everything up and rode out in the wagon for Yankton. Paulie rode the bay horse and Astrid, now four years old, rode in front of him until she got tired and took her nap in the wagon. When they arrived in Yankton, Grit and Paulie asked Simon Cloud, the lawyer who'd handled the adoption of Astrid, if he would advertise and try to sell both homesteads.
  
  "Get what you can for 'em," Grit told him. "If we get a thousand dollars, we'll be about even, but we'll take whatever we can get."
  
  "We did quite well in Dakota Territory," Grit said with a laugh. "Paulie and I came out here from Ohio, a couple of tramps on a cattle car. We had nothin' but the clothes on our backs, a few dollars in our pockets and a willingness to work. Now we've got two of our number going to college."
  
  Colleen hugged him and said, "I've never seen anybody work as hard as you do. And Paulie is just like you."
  
  "Well, we've all contributed, and we've done alright," Grit said.
  
  They'd discussed the best ways to travel, and decided Coleen, Astrid, and Paulie would take the train to Lincoln and Grit would follow in the wagon with their belongings. Grit waved goodbye to everyone as they left on the train from Yankton. He'd given Colleen money to buy or rent a house and to buy whatever else she and Astrid needed, and he'd given Paulie a thousand dollars for his next year's college expenses. He left $5,000 in the Yankton bank and was carrying $3,600 with him. He hid all but a hundred dollars in an iron box bolted underneath the bed of the wagon. The box wasn't much bigger than the $50 bills, so it would be difficult for any thieves to find.
  
  Right after his family left, Grit followed in the wagon pulled by the two mules they had and two more they'd recently bought. Both the dun and bay horses were tied to the tailgate. He figured it would take him roughly a week to get to Lincoln with all the family's belongings, but it was the cheapest way to do it because he thought he might need the mules and wagon in any business he set up. As he rumbled down the road toward the ferry that would take him across the wide Missouri, he didn't see the two black-bearded men mount their horses and follow.
  
  Grit paid his money and drove the wagon onto the ferry, which utilized the river's current for power and took him down and over to the other side of the Missouri in about 20 minutes. He rode off the ferry and headed south toward Lincoln. He hadn't gone too far when he overtook a man walking in the middle of the road. The man moved aside to let Grit pass, but otherwise didn't offer any greeting.
  
  As Grit passed, he looked down at the pedestrian, and he just kept walking, seeming not to notice that the wagon was even there.
  
  "Want a ride?" Grit shouted.
  
  The man looked up and said, "Yessir, I'd appreciate one."
  
  Grit stopped the wagon, and the man climbed up onto the seat by Grit, stowing his haversack and rifle in the wagon. "So where you goin'?" Grit asked.
  
  "Goin' to Lincoln, see if I can find some work," the man said.
  
  Grit held out his right hand and said, "Grit Milburn."
  
  "Casey Daws," the man said as he took Grit's hand.
  
  "What kinda work you do?" Grit asked.
  
  "'Bout any kind, I guess," Daws said, "if it'll pay me enough to live on."
  
  "Well, I'm goin' to Lincoln, so I can take you there."
  
  "Much obliged, Mister," Daws said.
  
  "Probably be faster if you walk, but you'll wear out a lot of shoe leather," Grit said.
  
  Daws laughed and said, "True, and I can't afford another pair of shoes."
  
  When they stopped to rest the animals at midday, Daws jumped right in and did his part. He helped Grit unhitch the mules and then staked the horses out to forage. Daws built a fire and got water from a nearby stream. Grit had his chores but he noticed that Daws was wanting to do his part, and he was impressed.
  
  As they sat around the fire drinking coffee and preparing a meal, Daws said, "Two horsemen just topped that ridge, then reined their horses back around."
  
  "Yeah?"
  
  "Like they saw us and didn't want us to see them."
  
  "There's all kinds on the plains," Grit said. "For now, let's eat the venison and beans." Within an hour, they were moving south once again, sitting on the high seat together. They crossed several small streams. It seemed eastern Nebraska was dotted with them, which was good for the mules and horses. Grit knew that every hot day, working hard like that day, the animals might need 10 gallons of water each.
  
  They stopped that night near a small stream and prepared their camp. The mules had worked hard and had given Grit nary a problem. He got out a gunny sack to rub them down.
  
  Daws said, "Let me do that." He watered each of the animals, gave them a rubdown with the gunnysack before staking them out to forage.
  
  "This venison is gonna spoil if we don't cook it," Grit said, "so we'll be having the same meal as we had at noon, but we'll share a can of peaches for dessert. How's that?"
  
  "Sure better'n I woulda had by myself," Daws said. "I appreciate not only the ride but the meal."
  
  When they bedded down for the night, Grit kept his rifle next to him. As he was drifting off to sleep, he thought better of it and moved away from camp and into a small swale about a hundred feet away from camp. He was a heavy sleeper, and he slept soundly for a few hours until he was awakened by voices.
  
  "We gotcha covered," a voice said. "Don't move."
  
  It was followed by another, much deeper voice, "Where's the other guy."
  
  "I don't know," Casey said. "He was right on the other side of the fire when I went to sleep."
  
  "Roll over," deep voice said. "We gotta tie your hands before we find the other guy."
  
  Grit peeked over the edge of the swale, but there was cloud cover, and he could see almost nothing, only the dimmest of shadows. He saw the shadow of a man, lifted his rifle and fired. When he did, he got instant return fire and something struck his head, and then there was only... nothingness, a part chopped out of his life.
  
  When Grit regained consciousness, it was still dark, but he could tell he was alone. The first hint of dawn was evident in the east, and he had the most awful headache he'd ever had in his life. He eased his hand to his head and felt a bloody patch and realized a bullet had creased his skull. Struggling to his feet, he wandered down to where he'd left the wagon, but it was gone. He turned and stumbled over something, then he realized it was a body.
  
  He looked closely and saw the body was that of Casey Daws. "Ah no," he mumbled. "Why would they kill the poor man?" He remembered he'd heard them tie Casey up, and he was still tied in death, which meant they'd killed him in cold blood, shot him in the head.
  
  Grit couldn't even conceive it. The evil, misbegotten bastards had killed an innocent man trussed up like a turkey. He stood and his head swirled. Suddenly he turned and had the dry heaves. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
  
  "I gotta get after those blackguards," he said to himself. He wandered back over to the swale where he'd slept and found his two blankets, but they'd taken his rifle. As the dawn lit his surroundings, he looked around and found his three-pound ax and his hand ax, both still sharp.
  
  Grit walked down to the little stream and lay on his belly to drink. He drank all he could before getting up, steadying himself and starting to follow the tracks of the wagon, which led east. Ordinarily he could walk 50 miles in a day, but in his condition he wasn't sure how fast he could go.
  
  And then he thought about the money. He reached into his pocket, and all his money was gone, as was the $3,500 that was in the steel box under the wagon. He had to get it all back. It was so important for the education of his family. He'd only known Casey Daws for a few short hours, but he could tell the man was honest and hard-working, a quality human being.
  
  After a time, he hit his stride and got into a rhythm, but he had no canteen, so thirst became a problem. Off to his right, he saw some trees, so he headed that way. No trees would be growing out here without water. He found a skimpy little stream but it was icy water clear as the sky, so Grit drank his fill, then drank some more and got back on the trail of the wagon. The tracks cut deep into the soil because the outlaws were not following a road. No, they'd taken off across the prairie like they knew where they were going.
  
  He walked heavy-footed, steadily watching the horizon but saw nothing. He walked on and on throughout the day, following the tracks of his wagon, and stopping at every little stream to fill his belly with water. He was hungry, but he'd been hungry before, and he willed himself to go on, to keep moving. His determination to exact his revenge and recover his money and goods was greater than any amount of hunger.
  
  In mid-afternoon, Grit saw where the men had stopped to rest the mules and horses. He couldn't believe the men were so stupid that they'd work the mules to death, but this was the first stop Grit had been able to identify. He got his drink from a little creek under the cottonwood trees.
  
  He pulled out the little map he'd carried in his back pocket. They'd apparently only searched his front pockets. He figured maybe the men were going to Sioux City to try and sell off his goods, but he knew he'd reach them before they got that far.
  
  The sun finally went down and it was a mite cooler, but not by much. He walked on into the night and near dark he saw in the distance the wink of a fire, like maybe he was seeing it through the leaves of a tree. He went straight for it and approached it stealthily. He saw his wagon and smiled. The horses were staked out to the right and the mules to the left.
  
  Around the fire, the men sat drinking coffee laced with liquor. He could see the whiskey bottle beside one of the men. "That there man shoulda had more'n a hunnerd dollars on 'im. I wonder where he hid the rest."
  
  "We'll find it, by damn," deep voice said. "Mañana we'll take that wagon apart and see what kinda treasure we got in there."
  
  Grit lay about 30 feet away behind a large cottonwood tree, with its huge roots. He peeked above the giant tree's roots and could see both men at ease around the fire. They looked like brothers, dark hair, dark beards, and their accents sounded like they'd come from somewhere in Texas. Grit had had a friend in prison who'd come from Corpus Christi, and the men's accents sounded the same.
  
  "You boys keep right on drinkin' so that you'll sleep soundly," Grit thought to himself. He eased himself back from the roots of the cottonwood and found himself a place to sleep on the wide prairie. He looked up at the sky and felt a lot like he'd felt when he was waiting for Colleen's kidnappers. He knew he could take these killers in to the authorities in Sioux City or somewhere, but he was the only witness, and they'd probably get off. No, that couldn't happen. He owed it to Casey Daws and himself to make sure it didn't happen, and when those men went to sleep... well, he didn't know how it would turn out, but he knew these men deserved no mercy whatever.
  
  Grit slept for a few hours and awoke in the middle of a starlit night. As he rolled over, his head started to hurt and he felt the dizziness return. He finally managed to stand and waited a few seconds for the dizziness to pass. He fell to his knees, rolled up his blankets and picked up his ax and hatchet before heading toward the campsite.
  
  As he crept toward the campsite, he heard one of the horses neigh loudly. Might have been the bay recognizing his scent on the wind. Stopping dead in his tracks, Grit knelt by the back wheel of the wagon. One of the men sat up in his bedroll. He pulled his revolver and said, "What was that?" But the other man continued sleeping. "Bart, wake up," the man said.
  
  "Wha... wha... what is it?" Bart asked.
  
  "I don't know," he said. "Somebody's out there. One of the horses whinnied."
  
  "Aw shit, Leo, go back to sleep. Prob'ly a coyote."
  
  "I'm gon' look around," he said as he stood, his revolver in his hand.
  
  "Be my guest," Bart said. "I'm goin' back to sleep."
  
  When Leo crept down the side of the wagon, Grit was kneeling at the back wheel on the other side, and he thought he'd be easy to find, so he determined on a course of action. When Leo came around the back side of the wagon, looking out at the prairie, Grit rose from behind the wheel and threw the hatchet. Leo must have seen the motion of the throw, for he turned slightly and the hatchet buried itself in the left side of his forehead. He fell over backward, dead before his body hit the ground. His fall didn't make much noise, but he emitted a loud groan.
  
  Instantly, Grit heard the other man ask, "Leo, are you alright?"
  
  Getting no response, Bart jumped up from his blankets and yelled, "Leo, answer me! Leo?"
  
  Bart pulled his revolver and ran down beside the wagon. When he saw Leo's body, he knelt beside it staring at the ax in Leo's head. "O my God no, Indians!" he said.
  
  As an arm slipped around Bart's throat, Grit said, "No, not Indians. It's the avenging angel of the man you murdered." Using only a pittance of his great strength, Grit jerked the head sideways and broke the man's neck. As Grit dropped Bart's body to the ground, the sightless eyes were open with a look of surprise in them.