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really was, but he preferred his women less stiff-necked, and besides, he’d have to be out of his mind to take her up on her proposal.
    What with clashing temperaments, bad weather, and even worse food, guiding a group of men would be hard enough; a group of women would never complete the trip, and why she wanted to travel by wagon was beyond anyone’s guess. By his thinking, women were better suited for raising children than for driving mules across country. But today’s modern women thought themselves capable of doing anything a man could do, and Miss Atwood undoubtedly marched under that same banner. He peered in the mirror again at the raw scar on the side of his face. Rocks , he said to himself and shook his head.
    But truth be told, taking her up on her proposal would get him out of Chicago. He’d been in the city almost three years now, and he hated every day of it. Too noisy, too congested, too many rules. He’d been born and raised in Texas and missed the clean air and the endless vistas, but in Texas he was a wanted man. In Chicago he was just another face in the crowd.
    Jackson lifted the small tarnished picture frame from atop the dresser and solemnly viewed the two men it showed. Frozen in time was his smiling adopted brother Griffin and their stern-faced father, Royce, a big man with large muttonchops covering his brown cheeks. By trade Royce had been a carpenter, but on Sunday he preached the Good News. Griffin had been seventeen when the picture was taken. Five years earlier, Royce had found the twelve-year-old orphan Griffin working atan Abilene whorehouse, running errands for the girls and the gamblers there. Royce had brought Griffin back to Texas and made him a member of their small family.
    It hadn’t surprised Jackson to find himself with a new sibling. Royce had always had a big heart, and it was that generosity of spirit that had ultimately led to his death. Ten years ago, a group of thugs were terrorizing some of the Black tenant farmers in the area near their Texas home and Royce had promised to intervene on the farmers’ behalf. When Royce rode out to speak to the men who called themselves the Sons of Shiloh, they hadn’t cared that he’d come seeking peace, they’d shot him dead.
    One of the men involved in Royce’s death had been Lane Trent, the only son of Bill Trent, one of the county’s wealthiest Reb Democrats. At the time of the murder, Jackson had been the county’s newly elected sheriff and had been trying to build his own case against the Sons of Shiloh. He knew it wouldn’t be easy to arrest Lane Trent. Due to the tumultuous times and the rising disenfranchisement of the race, very few men outside the race respected his authority, but Royce had been his father and Jackson wanted the killers brought to justice. So he and his three-man posse rode out to the Trent spread to arrest Lane Trent, but when Jackson stepped up onto the porch, Bill Trent spit on Jackson’s boots and said the only thing a nigra could do on his land was pick cotton. He’d then ordered his men to open fire. In the ensuing gunfight, the elder Trent had been killed.
    Afterward, Lane, aided by his late father’s powerful friends, convinced the authorities that Jackson had no evidence linking Lane to Royce’s murder and had gunned down Bill Trent in cold blood. Two days later, warrants were issued for Jackson’s arrest, but he had no intention of letting Lane Trent watch him hang for acrime he hadn’t committed, so he and Griffin rode north and never looked back.
    He and Griffin had ridden together for a while after that, picking up odd carpentry jobs here and there, but they’d soon drifted apart. Last Jackson had heard, his little brother had made quite a name for himself robbing trains. As a former lawman, Jackson found Griffin’s chosen occupation disturbing. He disliked the idea of his brother living outside the law, but who was he to judge? So was he.
    Jackson set the picture down. The fact that