The Rifleman
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Fan Fiction

The Last Resort
by Soquilii

The Rifleman: LGL Productions owns the characters and the premise behind The Rifleman.
The Tall Man Characters belong, to some extent, history. Samuel A. Peeples, creator; Lincoln County Production Company, Revue Studios and NBC own the rest.

Mark McCain befriends Billy the Kid but Lucas disapproves, especially when he catches Billy teaching Mark the art of the quick draw. A showdown at the McCain ranch shows Billy's true colors.

It was Saturday, a cool spring day in North Fork, New Mexico. An early morning shower had patted the dust down, preventing it from swirling in the breeze as hooves and wagon wheels alike churned it up. The bonneted women shopping and gossiping, making their way along the wooden sidewalks of the town, were grateful for that. So were the storekeepers, spared at least one chore of constantly sweeping out.

Travelers of all sorts were in town: farmers, ranchers, families passing through in canvas covered wagons, men on horseback, men on foot. Those with business in Lincoln dismounted and tied their reins to the many hitching posts lining the street.

One of these was William H. Bonney from Lincoln, NM, a town which lay about two days' ride to the east of North Fork.*

A young hothead with a widely known reputation as a fast gun, Bonney had been working for a wealthy rancher named John Tundall** who had taken a shine to him. Bonney had proved to be an able ranch hand. The sheriff of Lincoln County, Pat Garrett, decided to give the boy a chance and mentor him. A jocular young man with a handsome, boyish face and an eye for the ladies, Billy, as everyone called him managed to stay more or less on the right side of the law. On occasion when he strayed or when bad luck dogged his footsteps, he was found to be innocent by the law of the Old West, which decreed a man could draw a gun and fire in self defense. Shooting an unarmed man, especially in the back, train robbing, bank robbing and cattle rustling were considered prison offenses. So far, Billy had avoided temptation.

Today he was in North Fork on Tundall's business, charged with arranging the sale of some prime white faces to be shipped by train back to Lincoln at a later date. After checking the small herd at the stockbarn, he closed the deal and headed over to the general store for supplies for the trail home. Ammunition, jerky, coffee and beans were all a ranch hand really needed in his saddle bags.

Might as well pick up a new canteen, he reminded himself, checking his equipment. This one's rusted through.

As Billy entered the store, the bell tinkled, signaling his arrival. Hattie Denton, the store keeper, looked up from the counter where she was packaging Mark McCain's weekly allowance of licorice sticks, saving one out for Mark to chew on. His father, Lucas, was picking up a load of feed across the street.
'Be right with you, young man,' said Hattie.

Billy came forward, eyeing the merchandise and running a hand across the woven Indian blankets folded on shelves. He grinned at Mark. 'Whaddaya say, young fella?'

Hattie handed Mark his package. 'Here you go, Mark. Tell your father hello.'

Mark nodded, his mouth full. Then, realizing his manners could be improved upon, tucked the candy into his cheek and said dutifully, 'I will, Miss Hattie. He'll probably be by later.'

Mark didn't leave right away. He backed away from the counter and studied the newcomer, fascinated by the man's gun belt. Nestled in the holster was a Colt Model 1877 .41 caliber pistol, engraved as far as he could see, with a white, shiny handle. It was the most beautiful gun Mark had ever seen.

'Say, is that licorice?' Billy asked Mark suggestively as he caught a whiff of the aromatic juice.

'Sure is,' said Mark. 'Miss Hattie makes the best in these parts. Want a stick?'

'Don't mind if I do,' said Billy, grinning at Hattie. Mark opened the corner of the tissue, extracted a stick and handed it to the man with the gun. 'Thanks, young fella.'

Billy turned to Hattie Denton, handing her the paper. 'This here's a list of what I need, Ma'am.'

Hattie read the piece of paper Billy handed her.

'D'ya have all that?'

'Oh, yes. It'll just take a few minutes, Mr. -'

'Oh, Bonney, Ma'am. William H. Bonney,' Billy said, tipping his hat.

'Just a few minutes, Mr. Bonney,' said Hattie, lowering her eyes. She knew that name. While Micah Torrence had never nailed up a wanted poster, she had still heard him talking about that name. She never figured to see the man in her store, however.

'I don't mind waiting, Ma'am; tell you what, I need to send a message to my boss-man. Mind guiding me to the telegraph office?'

'Why, sure.' Hattie was glad to have him gone while she filled his order. He'd been nothing but courteous but she didn't feel comfortable around him; his escapades were too well known. She pointed the way down the street.

Mark spoke up. 'Mind if I walk with you, Mister?'

Billy looked down at Mark and back at Hattie, who spoke up. 'I'm sure Mr. Bonney has business to take care of, Mark. Why don't you wait here?'
'Oh, that's all right, Ma'am,' Billy grinned. 'I wouldn't mind some company.'

Hattie eyed the two as they walked out the door. She'd let Lucas know where Mark was. She turned her mind to filling the young man's order, comforted by the knowledge that Lucas was nearby.


Two pairs of boots clumped down the sidewalk. Billy looked down at his new friend, the stick of licorice protruding from the corner of his mouth like a toothpick. 'What did the lady call you? Mark, wasn't it?'

'Yes, sir.'

'They call me Billy.'

'Glad to know ya. The telegraph office is right here,' Mark directed. He followed Billy in and waited while his new friend set up and paid for his message to Tundall.
'Look, uh, this message is kind of important,' Billy said. 'It is ok to wait here, y'know, to make sure it went through?'

Tom, the telegraph operator, frowned at him. 'You never know,' Billy mollified the old man. 'Apaches've been known to down the lines; I've seen 'em do it.'
'I guess so,' said Tom. 'Have a seat right over there.'

Tom translated the message into Morse code, tapping the key in a quick succession of rhythms, softly repeating the words on the paper as he did so. Billy sat down beside Mark, who kept eyeing the beautiful handgun.

'I see you like my pistol, Mark.'

'Sure do,' said Mark. He knew better than to ask to hold it, but was overjoyed to see Billy unholster and hold it up for him to see.
'Is that pearl on the handle?'

'Mother-of-pearl. I never knew anybody wealthy enough to own a pearl handled gun!' he joked.

'How fast can you draw it?' asked Mark.

'Oh … fast enough, I guess …'

'You should see my Pa with his rifle. He's -'

Tom interrupted the exchange. 'Your telegraph went through, Mister. And Mark, I saw your father cross the street. Probably looking for you.'


Lucas McCain piled the last bag of grain onto the back of his buckboard and paid for his order. He shaded his eyes, looking across the street. Nothing more to do in town - he'd go pick up Mark and they'd head back to the ranch. He found Hattie in her store, stocking the shelves. 'Afternoon, Hattie,' he said, leaning on the counter. 'You seen Mark?'

'He was just here, Lucas. He's probably at the telegraph office by now.'

'What's he doing down there?'

'Just doing a stranger a favor. New man in town - name's Bonney.'

'Bonney … ' Lucas thought a moment. 'I've heard that name before. Wonder if that could be -'

Hattie sighed. 'It's the same, Lucas. I know you've heard Micah talk about him. William H. Bonney - also known as Billy the Kid.'

Lucas's face fell into bitter lines. 'Not sure if I want Mark hanging around him.'

Hattie shrugged. 'He seemed to be all right, Lucas, or I wouldn't have let Mark go with him. But like you, I've heard stories -'

Just then the door's bell tinkled. Billy held the door open for Mark as they entered Hattie's store. He glanced at Lucas, leaning against the counter, a toothpick in his mouth. 'That your Pa?'

Mark nodded. 'Hi Pa!'

'Hello, son. Who's your friend?' Lucas eyed the young man; a stern expression on his face. He and Billy exchanged a brief glance, one that spoke volumes. Billy realized that the tall man with the rifle knew who he was.

'This is Mr. Bonney, Pa. This is my Pa, Lucas McCain,' Mark said, introducing them.

Lucas looked at his son staring at Bonney, apparently in the throes of hero worship. He extended his hand and shook with Billy. Eye-to-eye contact and a firm grip didn't necessarily mean a decent man - not these days, anyway.

Billy turned to Hattie. 'How much I owe you, Ma'am?'

As Hattie concluded her transaction with Billy and handed him his box of supplies, Lucas guided his son out the door.

'Nice meeting you folks - and thanks for the licorice, Mark!'

Lucas nodded tersely as he escorted his son across the street to the buckboard. Lucas clicked his tongue to the horses and they started for home.

Billy packed his saddlebags with supplies, mounted his beautiful Palomino and headed down the street to the saloon. He'd have a drink or two before he started back to Lincoln. It was late in the day; he'd camp on the trail and head back at first light. Two-day trip at best. He didn't look forward to it.


Lucas was quieter than usual. Mark munched his licorice as the buckboard rocked its way home. He kept an eye on the sun as it began its journey behind the mountains that surrounded their ranch. He was lost in thought about where the sun might be shining next - according to his teacher, it was a faraway land called China - when his father spoke up.

'Mark …'

'Yes, Pa?'

'That young man you met in town … Bonney …'

'He told me his name was Billy.'

'Yeah. What did you and he talk about?'

'Oh … nothin' much, Pa … I showed him where he could send a telegraph to the man he works for, and …'

'Man he works for? Did you hear who that was?'

'A man named Tundall.'

'Why, he owns one of the largest ranches in the state. You sure?'

'Tom read the message out loud. I wasn't eavesdropping, Pa. I heard it plain. The message said something about how he'd bought the herd and they'd be on the next train. Something like that.'

'Hmm. Holding down a steady job isn't exactly what I've heard about that young man. What else did you talk about?'

'I asked him about his gun. I thought it had a pearl handle. I didn't touch it.' Mark looked at his father curiously. 'He seemed nice. Is somethin' wrong, Pa?'

'No … no, son. Just curious.'

By this time the buckboard had pulled into the yard. Lucas urged the team on to the barn. 'I'll unload while you start supper. I figure beefsteak and fried potatoes would taste good tonight. Peel about ten potatoes and we'll eat the rest tomorrow morning with our eggs.'

'Ok, Pa.' Mark got down and walked toward the house. Something about the way his father had talked about Mr. Bonney puzzled him. Didn’t sound like he thought much of him. Mark idly wondered why, since he didn't remember ever meeting the man before. Then he remembered he had to peel potatoes, a job he detested. He began by examining the tubers and picking out the best ones. Even when there's a distasteful chore to do, his father had often said, a man does it, and does it well - without complaining. Best you learn that now, Mark.

He set a bowl on the table, took a knife from the drawer, sighed, and started peeling.
Billy Bonney left the saloon, mounted up and set out in a northeasterly direction for Lincoln. The sun was touching the mountains, glaring at him through red, orange and purple clouds. He figured he'd ride until midnight then find a place to bed down.

Riding at a canter, about an hour out of town, he felt something in his pony's gait that caused him to rein up. Concerned, he dismounted. By the fading light, he examined his Palomino's feet, one at a time. The off hind hoof had thrown its shoe; the hoof had cracked slightly at the toe.

Holding the reins, he checked the roadway for the missing horse shoe. He led the pony back to where he felt it loosen and peered at the ground. No luck. Threw it into the brush, he thought. No sense in getting snake-bit hunting for it. He could make it to Lincoln without one shoe, but not with a toe crack. He'd have to get some help. He patted the Palomino and stroked the silky neck. 'Too bad we didn't get shoeing equipment in North Fork, huh, boy? Not that we could have carried it …'

The sun sank behind the mountains. It was much easier to see without the waning sun's glare; and he could make out smoke from a chimney not far away. He set off on foot, leading his pony, hoping the neighbors might be friendly.


Lucas and Mark McCain were just about to sit down to dinner: hot biscuits, sliced tomatoes from the garden, thin fried steaks and fried potatoes, when they heard a horse nicker outside and a voice call, 'Hello, the house!'

From long habit, Lucas picked up his rifle and held his son back from the door until he ascertained who the intruder might be.


'Yes, sir, why, Mr. McCain! I had no idea I was passing right by your house.' Billy took his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair before replacing his hat.

'What can we do for you?' Lucas held the rifle loosely, barrel down, but he still held it, Mark noticed. He decided to lighten the tension he felt from his father.

'Well, hiya, Billy!'

'Hello, Mark. Did you eat up all that licorice?'

'Still got a couple of sticks left,' Mark grinned.

'Mr. Bonney?' Lucas prompted. He wanted the man's business known.

'Well, sir, my pony just threw a shoe - hoof crack. Wondered if you had anything I could use to repair it. Too far to ride him back to North Fork.'
'Bring me the lantern, son.'

Mark complied. Lucas took a good look at the hoof.
'You're right about that - he'll never make it back to North Fork and there's not another farrier within ten miles. Lucky that happened while you were nearby. I have some smithy tools; I'll be glad to fix it for you, but it'll have to wait till the morning. Where you headed? Lincoln, wasn't it?'

'Sure was.'

'Long trip over rough country. You're gonna need a bar shoe - and you better pray you don't have to break into a run.'

'I figured,' said Billy. 'Can you make one?'

'If I can't do it I'll send Mark for the blacksmith in town.'

'Much obliged,' said Billy, warily. He, too, felt tension from the man. 'Ok if I camp here by the house 'til morning?'

Lucas shook his head. 'No, you're welcome to bunk in the barn; I think I smell rain. No sense gettin' soaked.'

Billy nodded appreciatively and picked up his horse's reins to take him to the barn.



'After you get your horse stalled come back and join us for dinner.'

'You sure, Mr. McCain, because I've got a feelin' you'd just as soon I move on.'

'Not unless you give me reason. What do you say, son?' he asked Mark. 'Company for dinner?'

There was nothing Mark would have liked better. 'Why, I'd like that just fine,' he said. 'I'll set another plate. There's plenty to go around!'

'Much obliged,' Billy repeated. He led his pony on out toward the barn. The McCains watched him go. The pony was limping.

'Pa, why don't you like him?' Mark abruptly asked his father.

Lucas took a deep breath. 'Sometimes you hear things about some folks, son. But then sometimes what you hear isn't necessarily the truth. I'm giving your friend the benefit of the doubt.' He smiled down at Mark. 'Come on - let's eat.'

Lucas had poured coffee for himself and Billy; Mark got milk. Mark had set Billy's place and heaped the plate with food by the time Billy knocked at the door and came in. He took his hat off and sat down.

'I don't, uh, mean to put you folks out,' he said. 'But I gotta tell ya - this looks way better than beans over a campfire.'

Lucas grinned as he filled his plate. 'I've had that same meal many a night, myself. Used to drive the big trail herds after the war. We're glad we could help. Help any man in trouble. Ain't that right, son?'

Mark nodded, his mouth full of food. He knew better than to say a word in that condition.

'Mighty nice home; nice spread,' Billy observed. 'You run cattle?'

'Just enough for market to keep us in food and clothes. We keep a small garden. We make out fine, don't we, son?'

Mark nodded again. Billy speared chunks of steak and potato and put it in his mouth. It was a rare treat for him to sit down with a family and eat dinner … except this was a mighty small family. He wondered where the Missus was, and dared to ask.

'Mrs. McCain -?' he asked politely.

'My Ma died some years back. Before we moved here,' Mark explained.

'Sorry to hear that. Seems you two are doing well by yourselves, though.'

'We try,' said Lucas. 'Mark said you were shipping some beef to John Tundall. I know him slightly; I think we met at the Cattlemen's Association some years back. He runs one of the biggest outfits in New Mexico. You work for him?'

Billy nodded. 'Ranch hand. Three years come February. Steady work, and Tundall's a fair man. He gives a man a chance.'

'Who else do you know in Lincoln? I had a sister-in-law who lived there at one time. Mary Jenkins.'

Billy shook his head. 'Just Tundall and the boys in the bunkhouse … and a few young ladies,' Billy grinned, '… oh, and the sheriff. Pat Garrett. He's what I guess you could call my best friend. Patrick and I … well … he's helped me out of many a scrape.'

Lucas looked up, surprised. 'I've heard a lot about Pat Garrett. Good lawman.'

'That he is,' Billy said, stifling a yawn. He cleaned his plate with a biscuit and drained his coffee cup. 'Say, that was a mighty fine meal. Can I help wash up?'
'Mark'll take care of that.' Lucas motioned toward the barn. 'Let us know if you need anything.'

Billy took his hat in his hands and nodded as he headed out the door. After he left, Mark cleared the table and started on the dishes. Lucas, as was his wont, settled down to read for a while before going to bed.


The cot, stuffed with straw and covered by a horse blanket, was certainly better than sleeping on the ground. Just as Lucas had said, a spring storm was brewing; it was getting colder. The scent of rain was strong on the breeze. Billy unpacked his bedroll and added it for a layer of warmth. He chuckled to himself, thinking there was always a tradeoff; hard bed with a warm campfire; soft bed in a cold barn. You didn't build a fire in a barn - not if you were smart. As it was, he was careful with the oil lamp that provided some illumination. He examined the Palomino's hoof, rubbed the pony down and scooped oats and fresh hay into the trough. He'd pay Mr. McCain for everything tomorrow. He was hanging up his gunbelt when the barn door opened and a gentle knock sounded on one of the stall doors.

'Mr. Bonney?'

'Hey, son, you can call me Billy, remember?'

Mark came in carrying a thick blanket. 'Pa thought you might need this.'

'Your Pa's a mighty fine man.'

'Yes, sir, he is,' said Mark, eyeing the gunbelt hung on a hook. Billy saw the look in Mark's eyes. He was itching to touch it. He lifted the belt from the hook, removed the gun, flipped open the cylinder and removed the bullets. After checking to make sure the gun was empty, and keeping an eye on the door in case Mark's father showed up, he grinned and handed the gun to Mark. The boy took it into his hands like it was a chunk of pure gold. Eyes wide, he examined the handle and the exquisite engraving along the barrel. He noticed letters inside the engraving and held the gun to the light.

'Billy the Kid,' he read aloud. He gasped. 'You mean … you're …'

Billy smiled grimly. 'Some people know me by that name. I see you've heard of it.'

'Gosh, Billy, everybody's heard of you! Why, you're the best shot and quick-draw anywhere around!'

'Yeah, well … everybody's known for something.'

'The quick draw. Would you show me? Just one time? Please?'

'I can't go firing a gun in your Pa's barn, Mark.'

'Just dry-fire it. Or just draw it. I just want to see how fast you are. Please?'

Billy sighed. 'Ok, Mark … you were kind enough to bring me a blanket … I guess I could do that much for ya.'

Billy donned his gunbelt and holstered his weapon. Mark watched in amazement as Billy drew and clicked the empty gun too fast for his eyes to follow. After demonstrating it once, he gave the gun back to Mark to hold. Mark played with it, holding it at his side, pretending to draw and fire.

'You moved too fast for me to see how you did it. Can you teach me?'

'Well for one thing, that gun's too heavy for you. I can give you some pointers but I don't reckon your Pa would like me teachin' you this, Mark.'

Neither of them saw Lucas, wondering what was keeping Mark, come quietly into the barn. 'I don't reckon he needs the pointers, either, Billy,' he said. He took the gun from Mark and handed it back to Billy.

'You know who I am.'

'I've known since town.'

'Look, Mr. McCain, I've tried to beat that reputation - been working hard, tryin' to keep my hands clean -'

'I know that, which is why you're welcome to stay the night. But tomorrow, after I apply that shoe, it might be best if you went on your way.' Lucas turned to go but stopped and turned back, his hand on Mark's shoulder. 'I might add, Billy, that I'm teaching Mark that a firearm is a tool, just like a shovel or a hoe. It can be used as a weapon - but only as a last resort.'

He started to walk off.

'Mr. McCain!'

Lucas turned slowly.

'Ok, so you know who I am,' Billy said scornfully. 'Well, lemme tell you this: I know who you are. There's only one man in New Mexico that I know of who carries a modified Winchester Rifle …'

Lucas glanced down at his son and back at Billy, waiting for him to continue.

'…so you're telling me that you didn't develop that weapon for speed?'

Lucas looked at him for a minute. Billy stood waiting for an answer but he never got it, for Lucas turned on his heel, propelling Mark ahead of him toward the house.

'Goodnight, Mr. Bonney,' was all Lucas said.


True to his word, Lucas was out early with his anvil, heating and hammering a circle of iron into a barshoe. His rifle stood just inside the barn door. Billy was helping with the bellows on the fire when the sound of hoofbeats caught their attention. Two riders were swiftly approaching the ranch. Lucas laid down his tools. 'You know them?' he asked Billy.

'Never saw 'em before,' Billy replied. He raised both hands to adjust his hat as the two men rode up to the barn. They didn't give Lucas a chance to speak; they ignored him and looked straight at Billy.

'You Billy the Kid?' one of them asked.

'Some … people call me that. The name's William H. Bonney.'

Lucas had begun moving the few steps to the barn to grab his rifle.

'Stay where you are, Sodbuster!' One of the men drew his gun and aimed it at Lucas. The other one dismounted, gun drawn.

'What is it you men want?' Lucas demanded to know, mentally running scenarios whereby he might get his hands on his rifle. He prayed Mark wouldn't hear and stay in the house, out of danger.

'We want him. Billy the Kid! He's supposed to be the fastest gun in the state. Now, ain't nobody faster than me and Henry here so we came out to try him.'
'How did you know he was here?' asked Lucas.

'Followed him from North Fork. You're too easy to catch, Kid. While you were in the saloon we took all but three nails out of that shoe.'
Billy angrily lunged forward; Lucas blocked his path with an arm across his chest.

The men laughed. 'Clyde here wanted to ambush you in the dark but I figured you at least deserved the light of day.'

'I ain't fightin' you, Mister.'

'We're not looking for trouble here.' said Lucas in a low voice. His heart sank, for Mark, curious to see what the commotion was, came running from the house.
'Mark!' Lucas only had time to yell out a warning before a searing pain struck the back of his head and everything went black.


Swift as a snake, Clyde grabbed Mark and held his gun to his head. 'You got one choice, Kid. Gunplay with Henry here or watch this kid die. We'll kill his old man, too.'

Mark struggled, calling for his father, who lay motionless on the ground. Clyde tightened his grip until Mark could barely breathe. He stopped struggling, helpless to do anything but watch. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He never took his eyes off his father.

Billy was fuming. 'Leave these people alone. They don't deserve this. You'll get your fight. But leave them alone!'

Clyde laughed. 'Why, they're our insurance, Billy! You take on Henry first. Then it's my turn. But I don't think I'll get a turn because Henry's faster than you.'
'Don't bet on it, Mister,' Billy snarled.

Henry had taken a stance about twenty-five feet from the barn. Clyde held Mark tightly about ten feet behind Billy. Mark, alert but no longer able to struggle, noticed that Henry was placing the morning sun in Billy's eyes. He was terrified that the two men would kill Billy, then his Pa … and then him. What was there to stop them?

He knew his Pa would never forgive himself for not having his rifle at the ready. Maybe he had put it in the barn as a gesture of trust … of good will … for Billy. He didn't know. He would probably never know, now. Mark could only wait, barely able to pull air into his lungs, waiting, waiting …


Seconds later, Mark felt the release of pressure on his chest; the arm strangling him had gone slack and he was on the ground. He drew several deep breaths in succession, coughing. Billy lifted him from the clutches of the dead outlaw and sat him on the edge of the well. He pulled a bucket of water up and splashed some over Mark's face to revive him. When he was sure Mark was ok he hurried to help Lucas, who was just coming to. Billy took a wet bandanna and pressed it to the back of Lucas's bleeding head.

'Mark,' he groaned.

'He's fine. He's over by the well.'

Lucas got to his feet and managed a few steps forward. Mark tottered, meeting him halfway; Lucas clutched his son to his chest. They knelt on the ground, holding each other for a long moment.

Billy watched them enviously. Orphaned by the age of 12, his stepfather, Bill Antrim, had been the only father he'd ever known. As Billy grew older and harder to handle, Antrim had simply left him to his own devices. Billy had always yearned for a Pa - a real father, such as Mark had.

Mark's a lucky kid, he was thinking as he watched them.

'Pa … Pa, you should have seen him,' said Mark, shakily.

'Seen who? What happened here?' Lucas, his vision blurry and his head pounding, took a look around. In the distance, a man lay motionless, his gun in his hand The other man lay crumpled in a heap in the opposite direction. Lucas was close enough to see the round hole between the man's open eyes. Even in death, he looked surprised. Red rivulets flowed to the ground.

Billy the Kid stood nearby, completely unscathed.

'If it hadn't been for Billy, they'd've killed me, Pa … and you, too. Pa - Billy … he moved too fast to see!' Mark was overwhelmed with gratitude as well as admiration. He stood up, walked shakily over to Billy and put his arms around him. Billy picked him up and gave him a brief hug. He set the boy on his feet again.
'Remember what your Pa told you, son. Guns are tools that can be used as weapons - but only as a last resort. Come on, help me get your Pa into the house. We got a lot to do before I can head back to Lincoln.'

The End

*How far is it to2 North Fork?
North Fork needs to be somewhere between Santa Fe and Las Cruces and not to the north or east of Santa Fe
**As referenced by the series "The Tall Man." The man's name was actually John Tunstall.


These stories are based on the TV series The Rifleman

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