Rio Pecos Compound

Several years had passed since Clint Mason had first ridden into the wide, spreading, grassy valley several days’ ride east of Santa Fe. Here the Pecos River, better known as the Rio Pecos, flowed between two steep mountainsides. The mountains formed a natural fence on both sides of the river. Clint had joined a government survey crew almost five years earlier. The surveyor had been charged with the task of identifying the old Spanish land grants, their boundaries and set markers. The Mexican War had just ended and the United States Government had reached a settlement that gave them ownership of the New Mexico Territory. The U.S. Congress passed various legislation and rulings about the opening of this and other pathways to the West Coast. The surveyor that Clint was working for back then was a crook, a bully and a lousy gambler. Clint’s excellent math and geometry skills advanced him into the confidence of the master surveyor. It also put Clint in a position to see the rip-off the surveyor was pulling on the U.S. Government and land grant holders. When Clint went to work for this U.S. Government surveyor, Charles Norton, Clint had just turned 20. His six-foot frame was outfitted with a sharp mind, olive skin, dark eyes, wide shoulders and tough as rawhide muscles. It had only been five or six years since he had been driven from his home by a murder frame-up. If anyone had thought Clint was a fast-draw gunman at 15, they would not believe the speed and accuracy that he had developed since. These skills with a gun, even though exceptional, were second rate when compared to his abilities at card playing. Clint’s mathematical mind was tops, and when combined with his ability to read people, he was a gambler without equal. In fact, these exceptional card skills had necessitated the development of the gun skills. During the past five to six years, Clint had been in over 20 gunfights, with only a few scratches or minor holes to show for them. The near-misses had convinced Clint that skill alone was not a guarantee of survival. Using one’s head to avoid, or at least to reduce risk, was the answer. Clint’s teenage years of hot temper and reckless behavior had given way to deliberate, low-key, and cautious behavior. Clint had lost too many fights that he should have won, if it had not been for some unforeseen factor. Those memories reminded him of one incident where he had been the hero. A bar fight was raging between a cute little saloon girl and a big drunken miner. The miner was beating the crap out of this girl and no one was stepping in to help. Even though the miner had Clint by at least 100 pounds and had arms twice the size of his, Clint had held the upper hand and was giving the big miner a good beating to teach him a hard lesson. The next thing he knew, the little bit of a woman had crowned him with a bar stool. The miner proceeded to give Clint one of his worst whippings. Who would have thought or predicted that turnaround? That experience and several others had put Clint on a more thoughtful track. The stamping of the horse under him brought him back out of his memories. He had ridden his horse hard and it was demanding some relief. The vast spread of land before him was his by deed, crook and deception. Down below was some of the best horse flesh that the West had produced. Clint had made it his mission to develop one of the best horse breeds in the country. He had started that dream almost four years ago...