Sixteen year old Bryan Wheeler came back from hunting to find everyone dead. All alone he went the only way he could go, back down the trail that he knew. He met another orphan, Carol Sue and her quirky guardian, the Professor. They found a lot of trials stood between them and growing up in the old west.

EXCERPT

Smoke arose in the distance.

Bryan Wheeler shaded his eyes as he stared at it. Something was not right, but there was no cause for concern.

Not yet.

He headed back that direction, saw tracks and knelt, fingered the tiny tracks, read them as an eastern boy would read a book. A rabbit for the pot.

At sixteen Bryan was already an accomplished hunter. His frame bordered on husky, solid and well muscled. His sandy blonde hair and green eyes worked with his ready grin to tell everyone at a glance that he was always ready to have fun.

Cowboys his age were common on western ranches as were young soldiers riding with the cavalry or the Pony Express.

Girls even younger got married and started families. On the frontier young people grew up fast . . . or they didn't grow up at all.

While his father handled the team or drove the wagon in the Oregon-bound wagon train, Bryan was expected to walk out and put meat on the table. It wasn't a new thing. Back in Missouri he handled this chore while his father worked the fields, beginning when he was barely big enough to keep the muzzle of the big weapon out of the dirt.

His dad would give him a half a dozen bullets and expect an accounting for each and every one-something for the pot or a reason why a round was wasted. It was the way of the poor farmer. Scarce resources were not squandered.

Bryan stood and went in the direction of the tracks. Unable to see the ground he scanned the tall grass for the tiniest evidence of movement. He moved slowly, bringing his foot down toe first, Indian style, to minimize noise. Spotting some movement, he took a line to head it off, then waited until the rabbit scurried across a small clearing.

The animal was in the open only a moment . . . but it was enough.

The shot came quick and clean. He scooped the rabbit up by the ears and smiled. A nice fat one! It'll make a good stew, he thought.

He shaded his eyes to look off into the distance, wondered where the train was now. He knew it didn't move very fast, but certainly could eat up ground while a guy's attention was elsewhere. He was still puzzled by the smoke on the horizon. It was early to stop to cook.

He pushed it from his mind again. The wagon boss had probably found a really good campsite and decided to take advantage of it. That meant he had better hurry back with the rabbit, particularly if his mama already had the pot on.

He swung the rabbit in his left hand in order to keep his rifle at the ready in his right. As he moved out, his eyes constantly played across the ground to either side of his path. He wouldn't say no to a little more meat to fatten that stew.

A short time later Bryan glanced back to check his direction.

Hmm, he thought, the fires don't seem to be grouped tightly the way they should be with the train in a circle for the night. They seem to be in a straight line, spread out.

That's strange!

He immediately gave up hunting to step out quickly. As the worry came, he put a hand to his chest, a new tightness there. He had difficulty swallowing, his mouth unexpectedly dry.

He reached the top of the rise and his concerns proved to be justified. Bryan caught his breath as he looked down on the train. The smoke wasn't from cook fires, but from the smoldering ruins of several burned out wagons. Bodies lay everywhere.
He couldn't help himself; he began to cry. It wasn't the manly thing to do, but he didn't feel very manly right now.

Bryan entered camp warily, rifle at the ready. He tried to not look at the bodies, but couldn't help himself there either. Any other time it would have sickened him, but now it didn't seem real. He moved as if in a dream, his head swimming. The bright splotches of red were everywhere as if splashed by a demented painter. The air was tainted with a sickly sweet smell, but he scarcely noticed it.

He made straight for his parents' wagon, not wanting to see what he'd find there, but knowing he had to do it. He had to know.

Suddenly he stopped short. There they were . . . dead . . . no one alive in this whole train.

He was alone. Bryan sat down hard on a stump, averting his eyes, staring off into space.

He had often been alone before. Alone hunting, alone for a walk, valued time off by himself. But it had always been a temporary thing, an enjoyable respite. This time he was ALONE!

And he didn't know what to do.