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broadcasted again. “I can’t see any signs. I’m on the road that goes from our ranch into Fort Stockton…. That’s all I know.”
    There was a long pause before the now-softer female voice came through the speaker. “Do you know your home address?”
    Zach smiled. His father had made him memorize their address a long time ago. He blurted it out with pride.
    After a few moments, the dispatcher responded. “Okay, I know you’re on Highway 112. I’m sending help right now. How many men have been shot?”
    “Four,” Zach responded. “My dad used his shotgun on the two bad guys that had already shot the policeman. But pop got hit, too.”
    “Can you tell me where they are bleeding? Are they breathing? Talking? Moving?”
    It occurred to Zach that all of the men around him might be dead. He might be alone, and that concept was more frightening than all of the blood and violence. After glancing around at the remote, desolate landscape, he started crying.
    The young boy tried to answer the radio’s question, but could only sob into the microphone.
    “Stay with me, Zach. Hang in there,” sounded the kind voice. “A lot of policemen and ambulances are on the way.”
    Zach dropped the microphone, hurrying back to his father. He noticed his dad’s chest still heaving, but the pool of blood under his father’s prone body was much larger.
    “Dad? Dad, can you hear me?”
    A wave of relief flushed over Zach when his father’s eyes fluttered. It took several moments, but the elder Bass finally focused on his son’s anxious face. The old rancher managed a slight smile. “Hi, Zach,” he whispered.
    “Dad, the lady on the radio said help is on the way. She’s sending ambulances and more police.”
    “Good, son. You did good,” came the whispered response.
    Zach sat down on the pavement, not knowing what else to do. He lifted his father’s wrist and squeezed tightly, wrapping both of his small hands around the older man’s palm, waiting for help to arrive.
    As time passed, he found himself watching his father’s labored breathing, praying each exhalation wouldn’t be the last. The entire world was defined by his dad’s expanding and contracting ribcage.
    One of the criminals lying in the road eventually moaned, the animal-like growl bringing the realization that the bad men weren’t dead. Zach hefted his father’s shotgun, changing his position so he could watch both his dad and the wounded villain. The lad was familiar with how to use the shotgun, having watched his father fire and clean the weapon.
    The child had no idea how much time passed before he heard the first siren. Soon afterwards, the quiet, desert morning was completely inundated with the wailing of approaching responders.
    The first to arrive was a deputy sheriff, the uniformed officer rushing forward with his gun drawn and sweeping the area. He spied Zach sitting with his legs crossed, the loaded 12-gauge resting in his lap while he held his father’s hand.
    “Drop that weapon!” the deputy commanded in a stern voice, pointing his pistol at Zach.
    “Not until those crooks are dead or gone,” Zach responded, never taking his eyes off the nearby shooters. “Those men shot my dad.”
    The deputy took a step backwards, his posture making it clear he was preparing to engage the boy. He inhaled deeply and screamed, “Drop that weapon now!”
    “No,” Zach calmly replied. “I have to protect my dad,” he said bravely.
    Another man appeared, moving to the deputy’s side and placing a calming hand on the younger officer’s shoulder. With a motion of his head, he made it clear that he didn’t want a pistol pointed at the young boy – shotgun or no. The new arrival was wearing a white western hat, string-tie, and jacket. There was a silver star with five points prominently displayed on his belt.
    “What’s your name, son?” asked the hat’s owner.
    “Zach, sir.”
    “Zach, I’m a Texas Ranger. I need that weapon, son,” the lawman