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and find the homestead he'd laid claim to sight-unseen.

If he'd had to hear his mountainous, overbearing-nag-of-a-wife scream at him about having a well dug before she came to this new Promised Land one more time, Silas may well have lost control of his senses and shot the woman dead. As it was, he pushed on, determined now more than ever to have at least some of the expected amenities in place before she arrived with everyone else. A few days of peace without her shrill voice constantly nagging about one thing after another he welcomed gladly, and Silas rode ahead in excitement at the very adventure of it all until

A feeling of downright hopeless disappointment ran through Silas Tuck's heart as he scanned the inhospitable land around him. To the north: plains stretched as far as his eye could detect; extending on into forever with soft, purple hues, while becoming more and more sorry scrubby grasses as they came to what seemed their very flat end here at the center of his claim.

The southern portion of the claim was a swamp-of sorts; thick pools of black ooze leaking up through sandy loam, and sulfurous water, with wild weeds and Chaparral and Mesquite stickers everywhere a man could step; infested with hundreds of snakes-rattlers, which shook their tails at him as his mule stepped cautiously through and deeper into his new property.

The few places where he'd found water pooled and collected he found to be both foul and poison, either by sulfurous odor, or by the black stuff that seemed to be damn near everyplace he looked.

In three separate spots, he'd found large Texican longhorns stuck in the black tar-like stuff, from which he'd casually roped and pulled free, then pinned them into a make-shift corral of thorns he'd pulled together and bound, leaving his hands a bloody mess.

There was water, some six miles away at the small muddy creek bed that slowly percolated along the eastern boundary of the claim; it was a small down feeder stream that ran for several miles east until it tied, finally, with the Pecos and ran to its end at the Rio Grande.

It tasted like sand; much to Silas' disappointment. And, after filling all his canteens and jugs with silt-laden drink, he let himself think of what to do next as he rode back into what he considered the center and 'best' spot on the entire sorry lot.

For reasons which completely eluded him, Silas chose a knoll that stood much higher up than the surrounding areas; away from the stagnant pools of tar and sulfur and devoid

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