Incident at Butler's Station
Richard Wyler

CHAPTER ONE

The way station lay close to the foothills of the Mohawk Mountains. The land here was still rough and harsh, but somehow managed to support a few skinny trees and sprawling clumps of tough, tangled brush. A log and adobe cabin, a weather-beaten barn and a split-pole corral made up the station. And a faded, peeling sign over the cabin door — BUTLER'S STATION — made it official. The whole place had a run-down and sun-bleached look about it that fitted in with the surrounding country. By day the cabin sat beneath the sun's blinding glare, and at night its wooden structure cracked and popped in the chill winds that blew from the vast-reaching desert land which lay over to the south and east.

Fifty yards from the back of the cabin, through a sprawling mass of tangled brush, ran a narrow creek, winding its way across the hard empty land. For a few yards along its banks grass had managed to grow and stay, adding a touch of color to the otherwise drab and dreary yellow-ochre and gray landscape.

Beyond the creek the land rose in a series of undulations to a low ridge that ran from east to west for a few miles. And beyond the ridge the land began its long slow climb to the peaks of the Mohawk range.

The cabin itself faced south. The land lay practically flat here, and seemed to spread to infinity. This was a rocky, sun-scorched land composed mainly of hard-topped earth, sand and volcanic rock. It was a cruel, lonely, empty land where the only living residents were lizards and snakes. Man came here only when he had to. Even the Apache, who was on home ground, became wary and took no chances when he entered this forsaken land.

Dawn came slowly to this land. The blackness of night paled to a streaky gray. Landmarks took on solid forms as the grayness spread across the wide sky. From the rim of the far horizon the first pale fingers of the new day's light crept into view. The stars faded before the advancing fingers of pink flowed into a baleful orange flood that stained the sky with its glow.

The chill dampness of night vaporized in the spreading warmth, filling the ground hollows with a fine milk-white mist. The ground took on the reddening splash thrown out by the sun. The rocks, the brush, the whole earth became a mass of flowing, blood-red color as the dull, pulsing orb kept on its predetermined journey into the heavens.

Full daylight came and the final shadows of night fled. The land lay open and naked under the searing eye of fire that hung in the cloudless blue of the big sky.

Probing fingers of light crept through the cracks in the walls of the cabin at Butler's Station. They entered silently, darting brightly across wooden floors, seeking out the dim corners, filling the cabin with the light of a new day.

Katy Warner had wakened in the first grayness of dawn. She had rolled onto her side and watched the world come alive through the single tiny window of her small room. Now, as full, soft shafts of sunlight lanced in at her through the dusty glass, she rolled onto her back and gave a deep sigh. She stared up at the ceiling for a long while. Finally she threw back the bedclothes and swung her feet to the floor. Standing, she crossed over to the window and gazed out. She could see the water of the creek sparkling in the fresh brightness of the morning. Turning from the window she picked up her clothes from a chair beside the bed. Silently opening the door she stepped out of the bedroom and went swiftly down the short corridor into the kitchen. Unlocking the cabin's rear door, she paused long enough to pick up a cake of soap and a towel; then she stepped outside, closing the door behind her.

The warmth of the morning soaked through the thin cotton nightdress she wore as she made her way across the open stretch of ground that lay between the cabin and the creek. Pushing through a gap in the thick brush, Katy came to the bank of the creek. Dropping her bundle on the thin grass at her feet, she gathered the nightdress in her hands, and drew it up her body and over her head.

She stood for a moment, enjoying the warm sun on her flesh. She was a tall, firm-bodied woman, small of waist, with full, curving hips and thighs. As she moved her full, high breasts trembled tautly and her long, deep-copper hair tumbled about her shoulders. Bending, she picked up the cake of soap, then stepped into the clear flowing water of the creek.

Katy shivered as the cold water came in contact with her smooth flesh, pale and white except where the sun had caught her face and arms. She ducked under for a moment, rising wet and glistening, her hair hanging in thick ropes. She began to hum softly as she started to soap herself.

The creak of bedsprings in the next room told Ham Butler that Katy Warner was getting up. He slipped off his own bed and crouched by the window, waiting. A minute or so later he heard the rear door of the cabin open. Then he saw her walking in the direction of the creek in her nightdress, her full hips swinging in that loose, graceful way that made his lips go dry and his heart pound.

Sliding open his window, Ham climbed through and ran in a silent crouch, heading for a spot a few yards upstream from where Katy Warner had gone into the brush.

Ham Butler was a long, thin youth of twenty. He wore faded levis and shirt, scuffed, rundown boots. He was a pale, sickly-looking boy ...

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