THEKERRIGANSATEXASDYNASTYTHELAWLESS

WILLIAMW.JOHNSTONE

withJ.A.Johnstone

PINNACLEBOOKSKensingtonPublishingCorp.www.kensingtonbooks.com

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TableofContents

TitlePage

BOOK ONE - The

TestingTime

CHAPTERONE

CHAPTERTWO

CHAPTERTHREE

CHAPTERFOUR

CHAPTERFIVE

CHAPTERSIX

CHAPTERSEVEN

CHAPTEREIGHT

CHAPTERNINE

CHAPTERTEN

CHAPTERELEVEN

CHAPTERTWELVE

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

CHAPTERFOURTEEN

CHAPTERFIFTEEN

CHAPTERSIXTEEN

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

CHAPTERNINETEEN

CHAPTERTWENTY

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

BOOKTWO-KateRides

theTerrorRange

CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-

THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-

FOUR

CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-

SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-

EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-

NINE

CHAPTERTHIRTY

CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE

CHAPTERTHIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-

THREE

CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-

SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-

EIGHT

CHAPTERTHIRTY-NINE

CHAPTERFORTY

BOOK THREE - The

Reckoning

CHAPTERFORTY-ONE

CHAPTERFORTY-TWO

CHAPTERFORTY-THREE

CHAPTERFORTY-FOUR

CHAPTERFORTY-FIVE

CHAPTERFORTY-SIX

CHAPTERFORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTERFORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTERFORTY-NINE

CHAPTERFIFTY

CHAPTERFIFTY-ONE

CHAPTERFIFTY-TWO

CHAPTERFIFTY-THREE

CHAPTERFIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTERFIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTERFIFTY-SIX

CHAPTERFIFTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE

Teaserchapter

J. A. Johnstone on

William W. Johnstone

“PrinttheLegend”

CopyrightPage

BOOKONE

TheTestingTime

CHAPTERONE

It was not the ComancheKate Kerrigan feared but thethree white men who rodewiththem.TheComanchewereonthe

move a mile to the south ofher wagon. As was theircustom,mountedwarriorsled

the column. Behind them,also on horseback, came theyoungwomenofchildbearingage. Then, walking in dust,theoldpeople,littlerespectedinComanche culture.Takingup the rear, in thicker dust,staggered the slaves, mostlyMexican, but here and therewere white and black faces.The slaves, about twohundred in number, werechivvied along by boys whomadefreeuseoftheirwillow-

wandwhipsonbentbacks.The three Comancheros,

scarred, hard-eyed brutesdressed in the vaquero stylethen becoming popularamong Texas drovers, brokeaway from the column, drewreinahundredyardsoff, andwatched Kate’s ox-drawnwagontrundlepast.Shehadamilk cow and a lankybuckskin horse tied to therear.Besidethewagon,hiswary

eyes on the Comanchecolumn, walked old MosesRice. His sweating face wasblackasobsidian andhehada huge Colt’s Dragoon stuckinto his waistband. At adistance of a few feet, seventimesoutof tenMosescouldbe depended upon to hit histarget.“MizKerrigan...”“I see them, Mose,” Kate

said. “Get the children intothe wagon. Trace, Quinn,grab your rifles and stay by

me.”Moses loadedKate’s nine-

year-old twins Ivy and Nialland five-year-old Shannonintothewagonandtoldthemto hush now and that hewould make sure nothinghappened to them. Theyoungsters were frightenedandsowasMoses.Hedidn’twant to think how MizKerriganfelt.“Ma,” Trace said, “they’re

just sitting their horses,

watchingus.”LikehismotherTrace carried a sixteen-shotHenry rifle, a purchase thatback on the Brazos had leftthe family broke for a three-month.“Theywantwhatwehave,

Trace.” She looked at heroldest son, gauging hismaturity,thensaid,“Butmostofalltheywantme.”“Overmydeadbody,Ma,”

Tracesaid.“And mine.” She took the

stingoutofthatwithasmile.“The Comanche are almostout of sight. I think thosethree renegades will go onafterthem.”Quinn Kerrigan’s stare

reachedout tothethreemen,hisknuckleswhiteonhis .58Springfield. “I don’t thinktheyplanongoinganywhereexceptafterus.”“Well,let’sfindout,”Kate

said. “Quinn, yourSpringfieldcanreachout far.

Get into the back of thewagon. Trace, up on thedriver’s seat with me. AndMoses,youchoosewhereyouwanttobe.”“I want to be back at our

oldplaceon theBrazos,MizKerrigan.That’swhereIwanttobe,”Mosessaid,lookingassoulful as only an old mancan.Kate smiled. “Our future

lies to the west, Moses, andnothing will stop us from

getting there, especiallyComanchero scum like thosethree.”Katecrackedherwhipand

the pair of oxen lurched intomotion.Behindher,Shannonquietly sobbed, her child’ssixthsenseinheritedfromherIrish mother telling her thatsomething was amiss. Theadults were tense, slightlyfearful, and the little girl feltitinherverysoul.Trace stuck his head

around the canvas of theconverted farm wagon andglanced behind him. “Theyhaven’tmoved,Ma.”“Any Comanche with

them?”Kateasked.“No,onlythosethree.”She nodded. “They’re

bidingtheirtime.”An hour later, flat

scrublandgraduallygavewayto gently rolling country

covered with pecan andmesquite. Here and thereApache plume, yucca, andthicketsofwhitehoneysuckleadded a splash of color.Almost hidden from sightamongafewwildoakswasaburned-out cabin with threewallsandpartoftheroofstillstanding.“There might be water

there,”KateKerrigan said toTrace.“Ifthereis,wecanfillourbarrel.”

“Ma, theComancherosarefollowing us,” Trace said.“Jesus,Ma,they’reclose.”“I know they are. And

pleasedon’ttaketheSavior’snameinvain,Trace.IthoughtI’d taught you better thanthat.”Kate stuck her head into

the wagon. “Now youchildren be quiet as churchmice. In a little while youmight hear guns going off,but I want you to stay right

whereyouare.”“Mama, I’m scared of

those bad men,” Shannonsaid.“Don’tbescared,littleone,

I’llletnoharmcometoyou.”Kate smiled and put herforefinger to her lips. “Nowremember,quietasamouse.”She rummaged through a

small trunk behind thedriver’s seat and brought outan emerald-green silk scarfwith the famous war cry of

the Fighting 69th, the IrishBrigade, Faugh a Ballagh,printed along its four sides.Translated from the Gaelic,thecrymeantCleartheWay,andthat’swhatKateintendedtodo...clearthewayforheryoungfamily.Trace had seen hismother

use the scarf to tie back herglorious,flamingmaneofredhaironlyoncebefore,whenaband of marauding Apachesattacked their cabin on the

Brazos.Nowshediditagain.Alumpinhis throatandfearspiking at his belly, he knewwhatitmeant...KateKerriganwasgoingto

war.

CHAPTERTWO

After telling Trace andQuinn to stay behindguarding the wagon, Kateadvanced on the threeComancheros. Since hewould not consider leavingher alone, Moses was at herside. She held the Henry

close to her, hidden in thefolds of her dress, thehammerback.The three men watched

her, grinning as they madecommentsaboutherwalk,herbreasts, her hair, and herultimatefate.The Crate brothers, Sam,

Jake and Andy, had livedwith the Comanche for fiveyears and were content topick up whatever scraps fellfrom the bowls of the Lords

of the Texas Plains. In theirtime,they’dmurdered,raped,and thieved whatever tooktheir fancy, and Jake, thefastest with the iron, hadkilledseventeenmen,notoneof them near his equal withtheiron.Living in a warrior-

dominated society for solong, they had no regard forwomen and considered themthings to be used for theirpleasureandamusement.But

in Kate Kerrigan, they knewthey’dhitthejackpot.They’dtake their pleasure with herand then sell her in OldMexico,wherewhitewomenwith red hair brought apremiumprice.Many years later when

belted men talked of KateKerrigan, they wondered iftheCratebrotherswouldhaveunderestimated her so badlyhad they known that she’dkilled three bad men in a

revolverfightandhadfoughtApaches. The answer was,probably not. They werevicious, the Crates, but theywere also quite incrediblystupid.Before she stopped

walking, Kate estimated herdistance carefully. The factthat the three men had nottouched the booted riflesunder their knees told hermuch.TheCrateswere drawfighters, a new breed of

gunmen Texas had producedin large numbers after thewar. Had she been a gun-totingman, they would haveclosed the distance, but shewasonlyawomananddidn’tmeritsuchcaution.Kate had a fine voice for

talking or singing, and itcarried. Ten yards from theCrate brothers, she spoke.“Why are you following us?If you need coffee or food,you can have it and

welcome.”“Wewantyou,littlelady,”

Samsaid.“Tonight,onceyouhave a taste of the Cratebrothers, you’ll throw yourarmsaroundourlegsandbegusformore.Jake,Andy,ain’tthatso?”“Damnright.”Andywasa

scar-faced savage with athick-lipped wide mouth.“Lady,thisisyourluckyday.Sam, take a squeeze of thembobbers. Make sure they’re

real.AndkilltheNegrowhileyou’reatit.He’sintheway.”Kate had an Irish temper

that some compared to anerupting volcano, and sheunleashed it. “You foul-mouthedwhite trash. I’ll killthefirstmanwhotries toputahandonme.”That last brought gales of

laughter fromtheCrates,andSamwasstillbellowingashebegan his climb out of thesaddle. But he needn’t have

bothered. Kate blew him outofit.Suddenly, Jake and Andy

realized they had a she-wolfby the tail. The violentsurprisestunnedthemforjustamoment,givingKateallthetimesheneeded.She leveredanother round and shot fromthe hip, putting a bullet intoAndy’s throat. The man’seyes went big. Gaggingblood, he fired wild, thenslumped over in the saddle.

Jake drew and for a splitsecond, her life hung in thebalance.Moses two-handed his .44

cannon to eye level and cutloose. Maybe because heknew what a disaster a misswould be, the oldman’s aimwas true. The .44 ball tore agreat hole in Jake’s chest.Moses, to his own surprise,managed to score another hitbeforethemanfelloutofthesaddle.

In those unreal momentsthat follow a gunfight whenears clang and what has justoccurredinthespaceofafewseconds has not as yetreached the combatants’ fullconsciousness, Kate andMosesstaredatthedeadmenon the ground as through atunnel.Kate was snapped back to

realitybyashriekbehindher.Itcamefromthewagon!Sheturned and saw Trace

beckoningtoher.“Ma! Ma!” he yelled.

“Niall’sbeenshot.”Panic surging through her,

shedroppedherrifleandran,unawarethatMoseshadfiredagain, shooting the dying,bent-over Andy Crate out ofthesaddle.Then,asKatehaddone, the old black man rantothewagon.Niall had died instantly.

AndyCrate’swildbullethadhit him in the center of thechest and the boy’s smallbodycouldnotsurvivesuchawound. The young girlshuddled around him, crying.TraceandQuinn, tryinghardto be men, stood in stunnedsilence, shocked by the timeandmanneroftheirbrother’sdeath.Kate Kerrigan was

inconsolable. It was a timefor grief, for lament, a time

for rebellion against God’swill.Moses,moresureofhismanhood than the teenageboys, let his tears flow,cutting channels through hisdustycheeks.MoseswatchedKatethrow

herselfonherdeadchildandsaid nothing. Born a slaveandthesonandgrandsonofaslave, he’d witnessed griefmany times before. Since hecould neither cure nor help,he waited stoically and

silently until the time MizKerriganwouldneedhim.Thattimecameatmidnight

when she left thewagon andstepped into firelit shadow.TraceandQuinnhaddraggedaway the bodies of theComancheros, and theirhorses grazed nearby. Theguns and saddlesof thedeadmen were valuable and hadbeen piled up near thecampfire.If she noticed, she did not

say. She calledMoses to herside. “We will take my sonwith us to his new home. Iwill not bury him in foreignsoil.”Moses bowed his head,

then said, “That is not theway, Miz Kerrigan. OldMoses is feeling the daytimeheat and the farther west wetravel, the hotter it willbecome.” He gave a great,shuddering sigh. “MasterNiallwouldnotwishtotravel

insuchheat,no.”“Ma, Moses is right,”

Trace said. “We could beweeks on the trail and highsummer is coming down onus.”“You would bury your

brother in this vilewilderness?” Kate asked, astormgatheringinhereyes.Ashehaddonemanytimes

before, Moses jumped in toshield one of the childrenfrom their mother’s wrath.

“Miz Kate, Master Niall’ssoul hasmoved on from thisplace. Now he has a shiny,heavenly body and he sits atthe right hand of God. Wewillburyhispoorlittlebones,grieveforawhilelonger,andremember his life. Then wewillallsmileagain.”“It’s a hard thing for a

mother to bury her child,”Katesaid.“I know, and I seen it too

many times in my life,”

Moses said. “You everwonder why black womenalways ask merchants forempty Arbuckle coffeecrates? ’Cause they makegood coffins for their deadchildren. Black women burytheir little ones and grievejustaswhitewomendo.MizKerrigan,wecan’t takeNiallwithus,no.”A horned moon rode high

in the sky and night birdspecked at the first stars.

Coyotesyippedclosetocampand a rising wind rustled inthe tree branches. KateKerrigan walked to the fireand gazed into the flames.Without turning she said,“Comefirstlightwewillburymyson.”

CHAPTERTHREE

AweekafterNiall’sdeath,the Kerrigan wagon pushedalong the south fork of theLlano River into LipanApache country. HereditaryenemiesoftheComanche,theLipan were disposed to befriendlywithwhites, but like

all Indians they could benotional. When Kate droveinto the settlement ofMenardville she had seen nosignofthem.Menardville claimed to be

a town, but consisted of ageneral store, saloon, andblacksmith shop only.However, the communityservedasatradingpostandawelcome stop on the northandwestcattletrails.When the Kerrigan wagon

creaked to a halt outside thegeneral store, it caused a stiramongtheloungerssittingonthe saloon porch. As usual,Kate, a beautiful woman atany time, attracted her shareof attention even after hardweekson the trail,but itwasthe threebloodhorses tied tothe back of the wagon,standing with the milk cowand thebuckskin, thatstartedtongues wagging. Since thewar ended, fine horses were

few and far between inReconstructionTexas.Kate and Moses stepped

into the store with the girlswhile Trace and Quinnguarded the wagon. Most oftheir grub had been shot onthe trail, but they lackednecessities like bacon, flour,salt, coffee, and sugar.Shannon and Ivy soon madeit clear that candy canes andmint humbugs should beincludedinthatlist.

Moses was window-shoppingwith thegirlswhenatallmanapproachedKateasshe stood at the counter. Hetouched his hat. “Howdy,ma’am.Arethoseyourhorsesoutthere?”Katesaidtheywere.“Are they for sale?” The

manworeafrayedfrockcoatandcollarlessshirt,verydirtyalong theband.AColtNavyin a cross-draw holster hungonhishipsandhehadtheflat

blackeyesofacarrioneater.“The horses are not for

sale,” Kate said. “We paiddearlyforthem.”Themansmiled. “Yougot

real purty hair, ma’am.” Hisgrin was not pleasant. “Andyougot realpurtyeverythingelse.”“If you’ll excuse me, I’m

quitebusyhere,”Katesaid.“Too busy for the likes o’

me,isthatit?”themansaid.The storeowner, a gray-

haired man with mild browneyes,spokeup.“Let the ladyfinish her shopping in peace,Jansen.”“You shut your trap”—

Jansen’shandwenttothebuttof his gun—“or I’ll shut itpermanent.”“And I’ll see you hang,”

Kategrittedout.The outlaw took a short

step back. “Whoa! Uppity,ain’t we? You know how Itameawomanlikeyou,little

lady?”“Wedon’twant to know,”

Moses said. He had thedragooninhishand.“IfIwasyou,mister, I wouldn’t drawthathogleg,no.”Jansen was caught

flatfootedandheknewit.Theold black man had the dropandnodoubtwouldkillhim.“Getoutofherewhileyou

still can,” Kate said. “Onemorething,alowlifelikeyoucouldn’t tame me on your

bestday.”Malachi Jansen was six

feet tallwhenhewalked intothe store. He felt half thatheight as hewalked out.Buthe was a man given togrudges and primed to plothisrevenge.“You take care, ma’am,”

the storekeeper said. “Jansenhas only been in town for amonthandhe’salreadykilledtwomen.”“I’ll bear that in mind,”

Kate said as she and Mosesliftedtheirpackagesfromthecounter.Menardvilleboastedatwo-

storyhotel,butKate,mindfulof her diminishing dollars,considered it an unneededluxury. The family campednext to a creek five milessouthof townwithinsightofthe Blue Mountains, thepeaks that marked the

northernlimitoftheEdwardsPlateau.The tall grass country

around the campsitesupported stands of oak,mesquite, and juniper. Asingle cottonwood grew onthecreekbank.TheKerrigansate a supper of fried baconand pan bread, then settleddown for the night. Massiveramparts of blackthunderheads loomed abovethe mountains. In West

Texas, more often than not,clouds did not always meanrain. Often, thunder bangedandlightningflashed,butnota single drop hit the ground.For that reason,Kate did notthink it necessary to bed thegirlsdowninthewagon.Exhausted from the trail,

the Kerrigans slept soundly.Midnightcameandwentandthe moon dropped lower inthe sky. A gray foxapproached the camp on

silent feet, her eyes filledwith firelight. She stoppedand sniffed the air. Alarmed,sheslunkintothenightlikeagrayghost.And out among the

mesquite, Malachi Jansenmadehismove.

CHAPTERFOUR

Asalways,Moseswasfirstawakeandherolledoutofhisblankets ready to get thecoffee started. He sawimmediately that the threeComanchero horses weregone.Therawbonedbuckskinstill grazed, but he and the

milkcowwerealone.Moses woke up Kate

Kerrigan. “Miz Kate, thehorsesaregone.Stole.”Kate was awake instantly.

She rose in her shift in themorning chill and held herblanket around her. “Coffee,Mose. And heat up lastnight’s bacon grease. I’ll dipsomebreadinit.”TraceandQuinngotoutof

their blankets and stood intheir long johns, lanky

youngsters as yet lacking aman’sheightandweight.“The horses have been

stolen,” she said. “I’m goingafterthemonthebuckskin.”“And I’m going with you,

Ma,”Tracesaid.“Noyou’renot.”“Ma, I’m almost man-

grown.I’mgoingwithyou.”“Riding double on the

buckskin will slow medown,”Katesaid.“Then I’ll run alongside.

AndI’llstillberunningwhenthebuckskinquits.”Moses,abigoldmanwith

a good face, said, “Boy’sright,MizKate.Lethimgrowupandbecomeaman.”Expecting argument,

Moses was surprised whenKate said, “You can runalongside, Trace. But I warnyou, when you can’t go anyfarther,I’llleaveyou.”“I’ll stick, Ma.” Trace

looked at his brother. “And

no,Quinn,youcan’tgo.Thisis Indian country. You staybehindandguardoursisters.”“I can’t run those long

distances like you cananyway,” Quinn said. “I’llstaybehind.”Kate and Trace drank a

quick cup of coffee and atepan bread while Mosessaddled the buckskin. “Oneman,MizKate, took off duenorth. And I got me a goodideawhohewas.”

“The man at the store inMenardville?”Kateasked.“He wanted them horses

realbad,”Mosessaid.Kate nodded. “And we

madehimlooksmall.”“Ma,hewouldn’tdrivethe

horsesbacktothesettlement,would he?” Trace asked. “Ishethatarrogant?”“He might be,” Kate said.

“But there’s oneway to findout.”Moses helped her mount,

thenhandedhertheHenry.Atthattimeinherlife,she

always rode sidesaddle andsettledherdressoverherlegs“Well, Trace, are you readytorun?”“SureI’mready,Ma.”“Thenlet’sgetitdone.”Moses stoodwith thegirls

andQuinnandwatchedthemleave.Hisheartwasheavyashe hoped for the best andfeared theworst.“Yourfolksgonnabejus’fine,”hesaidto

Shannon and Ivy. “OldMoses,heknowstheset’ings.Speaks to God all the time,him.”Hedidn’tknowif thegirls

believedhimornot.Kate Kerrigan drew rein.

“Whatdo the tracks tell you,Trace?”“Same story, Ma. They’re

headed right forMenardville.”

“He’s not even trying toloseus.”Kateshookherheadinamazement.“Maybe he has friends at

the settlement. Do you stillreckon it’s that Jansenranny?”Kate lookedat thecountry

ahead, her beautiful facethoughtful.“It’shimallright,and he’s not afraid of beingfollowed to Menardville. Iwonderwhy?”“LikeIsaid,hehasfriends

there.” Trace held his rifleand wore a Colt Navyholstered in a gun rig he’dtaken from one of the deadComancheros. He’d ownedsuch a fine revolver before,but that one was a bad luckpistol and he’d gotten rid ofit. He’d never owned onesince.“How are you holding up,

Trace?”Kateasked.“I’mjustfine,Ma.”“When we get to the

settlement, stay close, son.Letmedothetalkingandifitcomes to it, I’ll do theshooting.”“Ican takecareofmyself,

Ma.Andyou.”Kate looked him in the

eyes. “I knowyou can, but Idon’t want to lose anotherson.”

CHAPTERFIVE

The thunderstorm that hadthreatenedtheeveningbeforedecidedthatrainwasaviableoptionafterall.AsKaterodeinto Menardville, Tracewalking head-down at herstirrup,adownpourdrivenbya stiff north wind lashed

across the open ground infrontofthebuildings.As she’d expected, her

horses were confined in asmallpolecorralbetweentheblacksmith’s shop and thesaloon. A shaggy old yellowdog lingered near the corralbut slunk away as Kate rodeto the grocery store anddismounted. She left Traceoutside on the porch andstepped into the store,momentarily enjoying the

familiar down-homey smellsofmolasses,driedapples,andfreshlygroundcoffee.Shedidn’tneedtoask.Right away, the

storekeepersaid,“He’sinthesaloon, ma’am. Got BrickLarkhallandDanPoteetwithhim.Ma’am, you don’twanttogo in there. Jansen iswithsomemightyhardcompany.”“No need for that,” Kate

said. “I’ll just collect myhorsesandmoveon.”

“Ma’am . . .” Thestorekeeper’s face wasalarmed.“I intend to recover my

stolenproperty.”Shesteppedoutofthestore

andstoppedattheedgeoftheporchwhererainfellfromtheroof like a waterfall. Thestreet was already muddy.She’d need to lift her dressand petticoats to reach thecorral and at the same timebalance the Henry. It was

well nigh impossible. “We’llwaituntilthispasses,Trace.”The boy smiled. “I’ll get

them, Ma. I’m wearingboots.”“No. It won’t rain this

heavily for long, then we’llbothgo.”The saloon door opened

and a tall, heavymanwith aspade-shaped beard steppedoutside, a glass in his hand.“Still comin’ down,” he saidto someone inside. Then he

saw Kate. “Hey, pretty lady,come inside out of the rainandhaveadrink.”“No,thankyou.”A voice came from the

saloon and the bearded mananswered. “I’m talking to aladywhodon’twant todrinkwith me, Mal. Purty littlethingwithredhair,too.”Malachi Jansen stepped

through the door almostimmediately and stoppedwhenhesawKate.“Whatthe

helldoyouwant?”“I’m taking back my

horses,” Kate said. “Just assoonastherainstops.”“I got a bill of sale for

them nags,” Jansen said.“Ain’tthatright,Dan?”“Sure is,” Poteet said. “I

give you that bill of salemyownself.” He glared at Kate.“Go home now, girly. Mr.Jansen has his affydavey allsigned,sealed,anddelivered.Now git out of here afore I

putyouovermyknee.”“Don’t you talk to my

motherlikethat,trash.”Tracewasmadcleantothebone.“Well,well,well, the hoss

thief has a brat.” Poteetfanciedhimselfadrawfighterand reckoned he could gettwo bullets into the skinnyyouthbeforehecouldgethisrifle into play. The manwouldhaveshuckedtheiron,but a voice from the streetstoppedhim.

“Hold up there, feller.Don’tdrawthatgun.”Amanwearing a slicker, raincascadingoff thebrimofhishat, led a big palouse horsecloser and then stopped, hiseyesonPoteet.“Who the hell are you?”

Poteetglared.“Name’s Luke Trent, B

Company Texas Rangers.Whothehellareyou?”“DanPoteet.Iwasaboutto

arrestthesehossthieves.”

Trent’s eyes shifted fromTrace to Kate where theylingeredforamoment.“Yup.They sure look like a coupledesperate characters.” Longhair fell over his shouldersand he sported a great,sweeping cavalry mustache,the sort that made ladies’heartsflutter.Hewasthekindofmanwhocouldcutadashbutseldomdid.To Kate he said, “Ma’am,

did you try to steal horses

fromthesemen?”Jansensaid,“Yeah,shedid

and—”“Iwasn’tspeakingtoyou,”

Trent said. “Ma’am?” Hiseyes flickered for an instantas Brick Larkhall steppedontotheporch.“Thosehorsesinthecorral

are my property.” Katepointed to Jansen. “He stolethemlastnightorintheearlyhoursofthismorning.”“Doyouhaveabillofsale

for the animals, ma’am?Those are thousand-dollarhorses, first I’ve seen inTexassinceIwasayounker.”“My bill of sale was

writteninlead,Ranger,”Katesaid. “My bill of sale is thethreedeadComancheroswhoattacked our camp andmurdered my son, a nine-year-oldboy.Thehorsestheyrode that day are mine byright and I’m taking themback.”

“Igotabillofsale,”Jansensaid. “And I’m willing toshowit.”Trent glanced at the

gunmetalsky.“I’llcomeoverthere and read that.” Helooped his horse to thehitchingrailandsteppedontothe porch of the saloon. Adistant thunder rolled andlightningglittered.“There you are, Ranger,”

Jansen said. “As legal adocumentaswaseversigned

by an honest man likemyself.”“Isthatso?”Trentglanced

atthebillofsaleandhiseyeslifted,“YouPoteet?”Poteet nodded. “As ever

was, Ranger. And a straightdealerthroughandthrough.”“Where did you acquire

three Thoroughbred horses,Poteet?”Trentasked.“Huh?”Poteetfrowned.“It says here in the bill of

salethatyousoldthreehorses

to one Malachi Jansen forfifty dollars. Where did yougetthem?”Poteet hesitated, and his

shifty eyes telegraphed hisunease.“Well?” Trent said

impatiently. “Where did yougetthem?”“My pa bred them horses

and he give them to me.”Poteet said, proud he’dthoughtuptheliesoquickly.Trent nodded. “Your pa

wasLuciferPoteetoutof theNueces River country, right?Thereain’ttwomeninTexaswiththatname.”“Yeah,thatwasmypa.His

pa gave him that name onaccount of how he wanted agirl child and reckoned hisnew sonwas the seed of thedevil.”“The three horses in the

corral are nomore than fouryearsold,”Trentpointedout.“Lucifer Poteet was hung in

El Paso for rape andmurdertenyearsago.Iknowbecauseitwasmypawhohunghim.”“Ranger, I’m shocked,”

Jansen said. “I had no ideathe horses might have beenstolen.”Trent smiled at that, then

said to Kate, “Ma’am, youcan pick up your horses anytimeyouwant.”“The hell she can! This is

fermypa!”DanPoteetwentforhisgun.

Luke Trent shucked ironfrom inside his open slickerand shot Poteet before hecleared leather. In themoment of his death, Poteetlearned hewasn’t even closetobeingadrawfighter.Jansen thought he had a

chance to get the drop andwent forhisgun.Hediedonthe muddy porch floor,puking up scarlet blood.Brick Larkhall had his gunready but decided he wanted

no part of Ranger Trent. HeshriekedanddroppedhisColtasthoughitwassuddenlyredhot.“You thought about it,

mister, didn’t you?” Trentsaid. Then yelled, “Didn’tyou?”“Yeah, I did, but I

reckoned you were too fastforme.”Trent shot Larkhall and

watched him drop. “Thenyou’re just as guilty as the

othertwo.”RaisedinNewYork’sFive

Corners hellhole, Kate wasused to violence in all itsforms,andshe’dkilledwithagun herself, but the shootingof Larkhall troubled her.“Thatmanhadsurrendered.”“Not in his mind, he

hadn’t,”Trentsaid, reloadinga charged cylinder into his1860 Army Model Colt.“Where I’m going, I can’ttake a prisoner. He would

have dogged my back trailuntilhegotachancetoshootme in theback.”TheRangerglanced at Larkhall’s body.“Hehadtheoptionofstayinginside the saloon but didn’ttakeit.”Horrified as shewas,Kate

Kerrigan still realized thevalueofarealTexasfightingman like Luke Trent. Thedeath and destruction hecouldinflictinthespaceofafewsecondswasdevastating.

She made a vow then andthere that when sheestablished her ranch, shewould hire only riders whocould use a gun. Hard menlikeLukeTrentwouldbethepillarsofherempire.Trace had also seen what

fasthandsmeantinagunfightand he knew he could nevercome close to matching amanlikeLukeTrent.Healsomade a vow. Never againwould he wear a belt gun.

Even in dangerous times, hisweapon of choice would betherepeatingrifle.Ranger Trent arranged for

thebodiestoberemovedandpaidinscripfortheirburials.Fromthesaloon,hebroughtawhiskey back out to theporch. The rain had lessenedandKatewasatthecorral.Hefollowed her there. “Whereareyouheaded,ma’am?”“My name is Kate

Kerrigan.” Her voice was

cool. Although she admiredtheRangerasafightingman,she felt as a person he leftmuch to be desired. “As forwhere I’m headed, mydestination iswest. Iwant tostart out again on my ownandnot be beholden to otherfolks, no matter how well-meaningtheymaybe.”“Aboutamonthago,Irode

through the Llano Estacadodown into the Pecos Rivercountry and camped at a

placecalledLiveOakCreek,”Trent said. “To the east ofthere is some mighty finegrazing country that hasn’talreadybeentook.”“Are there Indians?”Trace

asked.“Plenty, young feller.

Comanche mostly but someApache.”He frowned. “Are they

friendly?”“Nope.Theyain’tthemost

amiable folks you’ll ever

meet. But it’s good cowcountry.”“Thank you for your

advice,RangerTrent.I’lltakeit under consideration,” Katesaid.“If I’m ever passing that

wayagain, I’ll lookyouup,”Trentsaid.“It’sbigcountry.Imaybe

hardtofind,”Katesaid.“Noma’am, youwon’t be

hard to find at all. All I’llhavetosayis,‘Where’sKate

Kerrigan?’ and a hundredmale fingers will point inyourdirection.”

CHAPTERSIX

Kate Kerrigan’s directionwas due west, but fatesteppedintodoeverythinginits power to delay herjourney.After another week on the

trail, the wagon’s rear axlebroke,andit tookMosesand

the boys threewhole days toreplace it. A day later, Katedroveintoamudholeandthewagon had to be dug out, afulldayofbackbreaking toil.A band of Lipan Apachestrailed thewagon forawhileuntil Kate bought them offwithcoffee,sugar,andaslabofbacon.But as they drew closer to

the Pecos, the graze gotbetter. Ithadbeenadryyearinthoseparts,butthesprings

held water and thecottonwoods seem to beprospering.KatetookShannonandIvy

by the hands and showedthem the first wild longhorncattle they’d seen, a couplemature bulls with hornspreads of six feet tip to tipand a much older bull thatKate later swore had hornseightfeetwide.Itwasrough,broken country, and thelonghorns were holed up in

mesquite thicketsmixedwithdense growths of pricklypear, throughwhich some ofthe old mossy horns movedwith the grace and quiet ofdeer.Trace and Quinn were

mounted and wanted to gointo the thickets after thecattle and see if they couldroust out a steer, but Katewould not hear of it. “Youneed good cutting horses forthat, not Thoroughbreds. I

don’twanttoseeathousand-dollar stud gored chasing asteer he has no idea how tocatch.”“What’s a stud, Ma?”

Shannonasked.“A daddy horse,” Kate

answered. “And no morequestions. We have to moveon.”To Kate Kerrigan’s

untutored eye, the Texas

Ranger had not steered themwrong. As far as the eyecouldsee,thelandtotheeastof the Pecos promised grazefor hundreds, if notthousands, of cattle. WherethebanksofLiveOakCreeknarrowedwas a spot about ahundred yards betweenbluffs. On the west bankstood a row of eight ancientcottonwoods, along with afewpecansandwillows.Toherjoy,theremainsofa

burned-out fieldstone cabinstill stood in the center of astand of wild oaks. Most ofitstimberroofwasintactandthe door, though hanging byone hinge, was of polishedmahogany. It had a tarnishedbrass knocker, handle, andletterbox with the numbertwenty-sevenstillintact.Though the land itselfwas

breathtaking, the door wassuch a wonder that Kate,Moses, and the children

gathered around it. Used torough-sawntimberdoorswithrawhide hinges, they’d neverseensuchabeautifulthing.Tracesaid,“Howdiditget

here, Ma? In the middle ofnowhere.”Kate looked at her son.

“This is not the middle ofnowhere, Trace. Not anylonger. The land you’restanding on is the KerriganRanchandhereitwillprosperandgrow.Astohowthedoor

gothere,Ihavenoidea.”“I’ve seen doors like that,

me,”Mosessaid.“Seenthemin Louisiana when I was aboy. The big houses alwayshad doors like that, all shinybrass an’ the like. But that’snot from a plantation house,no. It’s from a street whererich white folks lived atNumbertwenty-seven.”“Then whoever built this

cabinbroughttheirfrontdoorwith them,” Kate said. “All

the way from . . . well,wherever. . . toremindthemofbettertimes.”Moses looked around him

at the ruined cabin. “Whodonethis,MizKate?Indians,probably so.” His eyes grewtothesizeofsilverdollars.“It’ink their spirits is stillaround, watching us, MizKate.Isurefeeldeadeyesonme.”The girls huddled close to

one another and little

Shannonstuckherthumbintohermouthandshivered.“Mose,don’ttalkthatkind

of nonsense in front of thechildren. The dead are deadand they don’t come back.”Kate smiled. “Well, exceptfor thebanshee,but she isn’treallydead,isshe?”“What’s a banshee, Ma?”

Ivyasked.“Nothing for you toworry

about, child. The bansheestay in Ireland and don’t

travel. Mose, you and theboys hunt around and see ifthere’s anything left that wecan use. I’ll take a lookinside.”“May be snakes in there,

Miz Kerrigan,” Moseswarned.“Mose,Iamnotintheleast

afraid of snakes after St.Patrick chased them out ofIreland. But I’d better takemyriflejustincase.”

The cabin was empty but

fortheremainsofatableandsome chairs. The walls werescorched and blackened andsmelled of smoke, an acridodor that lingered long afterthe fire was out. Since therewasnothingmoretobeseen,Katesteppedbackoutside.“Miss Kate, you better

come see this.”Moses stoodat the corner of the cabin.“Best Quinn keep the girls

away.”Trace stood staring down

at scattered bones in thegrass. “Five skulls here,Ma.Lookslikemaybetwogrownpeopleandthreechildren.It’shard to tell if there weremore.”“Animals do that. Scatter

unburied folks’ bonesaround,” Moses saidknowingly.Katenodded inagreement.

“Somebody took the time to

layout thebodies, butdidn’thave time to bury them.That’showitlookstome.”“Maybe there was another

Indian attack and he had torun,”Mosessaid.“Well, we’ll bury them

now. I’m sure they weredecent Christian folks anddeservetolie intheground.”Shelookedaroundthesite.Mosespointed.“Uponthe

bluff there, Miz Kate. It’s agood place to bury folks.

Peaceful up there amongthemtrees.”“Yes, good. We’ll start a

cemetery up therewhere onedaymybones. . .andyours,too,Mose...willrest.”“But not too soon, no,”

Moseargued.“Firstwegotaranchtobuild.”Kate smiled. “I know, and

wealreadyhave thedoor forthehouse.”“Number twenty-seven,

Pecos River Street,” Trace

said.Theyalllaughed.

CHAPTERSEVEN

Cornelius Hagan hadhelpedKateKerriganandherfamily escape a life ofpovertyinNashvilleandtookthemtoTexas.Hewasarichman, kinfolk and good-hearted,butKatehadhadnowishtoimposeonhischarity

any longer than necessary.Whenshe’dproposedmovingwest to settle her own land,he had resisted. But seeinghow determined was herdecision, he’d insisted ongiving her a stake to getstarted.Althoughproudasonlythe

Irish can be, Kate was apractical woman. She knewshe could not establish aranch without funds. “It’s aloan,Cornelius,onlyaloan,”

she’d said the day she left.“I’ll pay you back withinterest,Ipromise.”“Then pay me when you

sell your first herd,” Haganhadsaid.More than anything else

thatwasKate’sgoal, but shewasalongwayfromsellingaherd. As she cleaned out thestone cabin and rehung thedoor, she didn’t even have aherd.But the cattle were there,

out in the thicket countrywhere some of the mossyhorns hadn’t seen a humanbeinginyears.Brushpoppingwas hard, dangerous work,anditrequiredsuitablehorsesandexperiencethatTraceandQuinnlacked.Kateneededgrownmenof

courage. She found one suchman in Steve Keller, a lean,mean, slow-talkingmanwithsky blue eyes whose stareseemed to bore right into a

personandcomeouttheotherside.Heexplained.“Ma’am,the

Texasbrushpopperisafellerwho knows he’ll never catcha cow by looking for a softentranceintothebrush,sohehits the thicket, hits it flat,hits it on the run and tears ahole in it. Like his rider, agoodbrushhorseisgameandtoughastheycome.Betweenrides,amangetsachance torest up and let the thorns

work out and his wounds toheal.Butnomatterhowstoveuphebecomes,he’sreadytohit the brush thickets everychancehegets.”“Where can I find such

horses and such men?” Kateasked.“You can find them

through me, ma’am. I cansupply men for the gather,and they’llworkforseventy-five cents a day. They’revaqueros, ma’am, Mexican

riders.YougotanyobjectiontohiringMexicans?”“Notintheleastiftheydo

theirwork,”Kateanswered.“They’ll work, ma’am.

They’re good hands, everylast one of them.” Keller’seyesmovedbeyondhertothecabinwhereTraceandQuinnworked on the roof. “Yourboys are almost man-grown,ma’am. Do you want thevaqueros should teach them?Mind you, ma’am, they cuss

andsinlikeanyothermen.”Kate ignored the question

and asked, “Can you supplythehorses?”“I sure can, ma’am. Them

big English studs of your’nain’tcutoutforbrushwork.”Atfivedollarsaday,Steve

Kellerdidn’tcomecheap,buthewas as good as his word.Eight vaqueros gathered fiftyhead the first day, mostly

heifers and young stuff. Thebig bulls were wary asantelope, fought like tigers,andwerehardtocatch.Tracetooktobrushpoppinglikehewasborntoit,butQuinnheldback. He was not as good arider as his brother and hadnorealunderstandingofcowsand where they might brushup.On thefourthday,Kellerpulledhimoutofthethicketsandsethimtoridingherdonthe increasing number of

cattle thathadbeendriven tograzeeastofthePecos.A week passed and then

another.Thedaysgrewhotterand the big steers becamefewer and harder to find inthe thickets. One of thevaqueros holed up with abroken leg after a ropedmossy horns rolled on himand another just quit, sayinghewasheadingbackhometohiswifeinMexico.Then came a day of trial

and tribulation for KateKerrigan, a terribleevent shewasdestinedtorememberforthe rest of her long, eventfullife.

CHAPTEREIGHT

AvaqueronamedVasquezand another rider, PabloMorales, were hunting thedraws for strays, butwithoutmuch success, when theystumbled onto a camp setamong the mesquite. Twowhitemen broiledmeat over

a fire and close by was thebutcheredcarcassofayoungheifer.When the men saw the

vaqueros ride in, theolderofthe two made a grab for hisrifle.Vasquezwasquickwiththe ironandabullet just twoinches in front of the man’sreachinghandconvincedhimthat he should leave the riflealone.”They were ragged men,

possiblyfatherandson,dirty,

slovenly and overgrownwithhair. They wore oldConfederate greatcoats andlace-up infantry boots andbothlookedtired,beaten,partof the tens of thousandsaimless, wandering flotsamand jetsamwashedupby thelatewar.Morales swung out of the

saddle and inspected theheifer.Hestraightenedupandasked, “Which one of youshotthisanimal?”

The older man rose to hisfeet. “I did. We werehungry.”Thepairstillunderhisgun,

Vasquez said, “This is theland of the Kerrigan Ranch.The cow was not yours toshoot.”“Like I said, we were

hungry.” The older man’spaleblueeyesweredefiant.Vasquez left Morales to

guard the rustlers andreturned to give his report to

Kate.“Youmusthangthem,Ithink.”Kate disagreed. “I won’t

hang a hungry man forshootingacow.”Steve Keller’s face looked

likeithadbeencarvedoutofa granite block. “Then packupyourwagonandmoveoutnow,ma’am.When thewordgets around that Kerrigancattle can be shot or rustledwith impunity, you soonwon’thavearanch.”

“But...butitwasn’tevenmycow,”Katesaid.“Itwasonyourland,wasit

not?”Kellersaid.“Yes. I aim to claim the

landasfarasthethicketsandevenfarthereast.”“Then it was your cow,”

Kellersaid.“Hang two men for

stealing a cow?” Kate said.“That’s...that’sbarbaric.”“Thisisahard,unforgiving

land, ma’am. We saddle our

ownbroncsandfightourownbattles.The strongsurvive inthis country.Theweakgo tothe wall and then they leaveand nobody ever hears ofthem again. If you thinkthat’s barbaric, then don’tstick around, ma’am. Ifyou’re not strong enough tofight for what’s yours, evenone cow, then this countrydoesn’t need you. Texasdoesn’t need you.” Kellertouched his hat. “Ma’am.”

Andthenhewalkedaway.“Wait!” Kate said, her

temper flaring. “I will fightfor what’s mine. I’ll let noman take from me or myfamily.”“The cow was yours,

ma’am,”Kellersaid.“Amanshot it andnow twomen areeating it. Let this go andthey’llbeback...andthey’llbringotherswiththem.Ano-good,shiftlessbunchtoolazytowork, but who know how

to steal. If they’d shot ahundredofyourcows,wouldyouignoreit?”“You’re talking nonsense,

Mr.Keller,”Katesaid.“No, ma’am. I’m talking

numbers. How many cowscan a man shoot on theKerrigan ranch withoutconsequences? A hundred?Five hundred? A thousand?In case you’re stuck,ma’am,theanswer is,notone.Thereis no law here. On Kerrigan

range, you are the law. Youare judge and jury. There isnooneelse.”Kate, despairing, turned to

MosesRice.“Moses, tellme.Mustitbeso?”“Idon’twanttotalkoutof

turn,MizKate,getabovemystation,no,”Mosessaid.“Tellme.Iorderyoutotell

me.”Mosesbowedhisheadand

talked to his feet. “Mygranddaddy tole me this one

time. He said that in Africawherehecamefromaman’swealth is measured in cows.Ifyoustealaman’scowyoutake mealy bread out of themouths of his children. Thatiswhy, inAfrica,when theycatch a cow thief they killhim.”“Black man talks sense,

ma’am,”Kellersaid.Since Trace and Quinn

wereoutwiththecattle,Katesaid, “Mose, take care of the

children.” Her throat tight,sheadded,“Imaybegoneforquitesometime.”

CHAPTERNINE

The two rustlers were stillunder Pablo Morales’s gunwhen Kate arrived at thesceneof thecowkilling.Shedismounted and Steve Kellerand Vasquez flanked her,theirColtsdrawn.The day was hot, the air

still. A tiny lizard didpushupsonarockandinsectsmade their small sounds inthegrass.Keller, more used to the

breedofmenhefaced,talkedfirst. “This land belongs tothe Kerrigan Ranch. Andyou’reonit.”“Wedidn’tknowthat,”the

older man said. “How couldwe know that? Onewilderness looks much thesameasanyother.”

“Well, you should haveknown.Whoshotthecow?”“Idid.Iwashungry.”“Plenty of folks around

herewilling to feedahungryman,”Kellersaid.“Butyou’drather thieve than ask. Ain’tthatright?”“The war made many a

thief, mister, andReconstruction made me apauper. Before the war, Itaught school.” The mansmiled, revealing bad teeth.

“It’s kinda funny when youthinkaboutit.”“Nothing here is funny.”

Keller motioned to theyounger man. “Is this yourson?”“Nope.We justmet up on

the trail. If you look in hisshirt pocket, you’ll find themedal he won at KennesawMountain.”Kellernodded.“I’lldohim

honor by burying him in it.Now, if you got prayers to

say do it now. Your time isshort.”Theoldermanwasdefiant,

theyoungerfrightened.“What’s your age, son?”

Kateasked.“I don’t rightly know,

ma’am, but the cavalry toldme when I enlisted thatjudging by my teeth I wassixteen.““You’re about a hundred

and sixteen now, judging bywhat I can see.What’s your

name?”“TobyTyrell,ma’am.”“Then you bear the name

of great Irish lords,” Katesaid.“Thatistoyourcredit.”Keller said, “Vasquez,

Morales, throw loops over abough of one of the wildoaks. Make sure it’s strongenough tobear theweightoftwo skinny fellows. Whenyou’vedonethat,putthemuponyourhorses.”“Sí, patrón.” Vasquez’s

facewasstiff,unreadable.Kate knew that the older

man’s fatewas sealed.Therewasnosteppingawayfromit.Any sign ofweakness in thewildcountrywouldbeseizedon and the result would bethat she’d lose what she hadandallshewouldeverhave.Butshecouldsavetheboy.“Justoneloop,”shesaidto

Keller. “Let Toby Tyrell gofree. I think he can makesomething of himself and I

willhelphim.”Thatlastwasoverheardby

Pablo Morales, who steppeduptoKateandsaid,“Ispokewith him while you weregone,señora.HisrealnameisMaxHarley.Hehasnomedalin his pocket andhewasnotin a great battle. He said hewasconscriptedintothearmybutdesertedthreedayslater.”Thevaquero reached intohispocket and produced apocketknife. “He said he

killed aman for this up FortConcho way. If you look atthe handle—right there,señora—you see the initialsL.S. They must be those ofthemurderedman.”Kate looked confused.

“Buthetoldme—”“That he had an Irish

name. That’s because I toldhim an Irish lady owned theranch. He’s a murderer andliarwhotriedtogetintoyourgoodgraces,señora.”

“Why didn’t you tell methatearlier?”Katesaid.“Because if he was to be

hangedanyway,therewasnopoint in burdening you withhisrealstory,señora.”“The damned greaser is

lying,” Max Harley yelled.“HeknowsIwasjustfunnin’with him. Are you going totake his word over a whiteman’s?Answerme,yougal!”Keller grinned and said to

Kate, “As the nice old ladies

say at a hanging tea party,ma’am,onelooportwo?”Kate swallowed hard.

“Hangthemboth.Thenputasign around their necks andmake it say, ‘I shot aKerrigancow.’”

Forthenextcoupleweeks,Kate was withdrawn andirritable. She had a finesinging voice and used it

often, but it fell silent untilMosestoldherhemissedtheold Irish songs, and him ablackmanwho’d never beeninIreland.She began to sing again

and by the end of the gatherwas almost back to herformerself.The cabin had been

cleaned and made habitable.Moses used the carpentertrade he’d learned as a slavetobuildfurnitureandbedsfor

Kate and the children. Traceand Quinn bedded downwherever they could butmostly spread their blanketsoutdoorsnearthecattle.Nearly a thousand head

grazed on Kerrigan land andoneof thenearby ranchers, aman named Colonel JasonHunt, stopped by with hissegundo, a taciturn mannamedKyleWright, to offerKate a proposition. “I’mpushing two thousand head

north to Abilene on theChisholm Trail, Mrs.Kerrigan. Mix your cows inwithmineandI’llgetthebestprice for them I can, Ipromise.”Everyinchaformersoldier

and Southern gentleman,Hunt was forthright andcourteous and nothing abouthimrangfalse.Whatyousawwas what you got, a tall,rawboned man in his mid-fiftieswithirongrayhairand

blueeyesthathadseenmuch.He’d been wounded atChancellorsville and again atSpotsylvania. Just a twelve-month before, Comancheshad put a strap ironarrowhead into his left thighand he still walked with apronouncedlimp.“Thatismostkindofyou,”

Kate said. She was servingtea outside the cabin undertheshadeofanoakandbothmen seemed to enjoy her

sponge cake, a favorite ofQueen Vic, which wasvanishingatarapidrate.“DoI bring my herd to you,Colonel?”“No ma’am. I know how

shorthanded you are. Myriderswill pick up your herdonthewaytotheChisholm.”“You are most gracious,

sir.”“No trouble at all, Mrs.

Kerrigan.Ifyoufeeduscakelike this, I’ll drive your herd

withmine every time.”Huntlooked at Wright. “Isn’t thatso,Kyle?”Wright, his mouth full,

couldonlynod.“I would be honored,

Colonel,” Kate said, hereyelashes fluttering. “Youmaystopbyfor teaandcakeanytimeyouwish.Ah,Mose,more tea for Colonel Hunt,please.”Moses poured the tea and

whenhis eyesmetKate’s he

sawa twinkle.KateKerrigancould play a man like a fishandthenlandhimonhersideoftheriverbank.“A beautiful service, Mrs.

Kerrigan,” the colonel said,holdinguphis cup. It lookedas fragile as eggshell in hisbig work-worn hand. “Is itChinese?”“It’s English actually.

Staffordshire I believe. Aparting gift from a relativebeforeweheadedwest.”

Hunt gently laid his tinycupintheequallytinysaucer.“I had an ulterior motive incoming to visit you today,Mrs.Kerrigan.”“Ah, that’s very

mysterious, Colonel.” Kate’ssun-dappled hair rippled toherbare shouldersand shonelikeburnishedcopper.“Mrs. Kerrigan, I came to

see the woman who hangedtwomen for shooting one ofher cows. You’re not what I

expected.”Her eyeswere very green.

“And what did you expect,Colonel?”Men who are not often

around woman don’t knowwhentotreadlightly,andthecolonelsmiledandbargedon.“Oh, I don’t know. Mannishmaybe,withcroppedhairanda bigger mustache thanmine.”“And you were

disappointed,ColonelHunt?”

Katesaid.“Oh dear no, Mrs.

Kerrigan. Just surprised.Why, you are a beautifulwoman, and right now youlook as though you’re readytoattendaball inRichmond.Hanging is work for mightyroughmen.”Wright swallowed a drink

oftea.“Iheardtellthosetwodiedhard.”Kate nodded. “Yes they

did.Ittookalongtime.”

“Well, they deserved it,”Wrightsaid.“I’vegotnotimeforrustlersandtheirilk.”“I’ll never hang a man

again,”Katesaid.“You’re probably right

about that, ma’am. Shootingisbetter,lessmessy.”Colonel Hunt said, “You

have our completeadmiration, Mrs. Kerrigan.Youstooduptoatestingtimeverywell.Thugs,vagabonds,and no-accounts must be

taught a lesson and in thatyoudidnotfail.”The colonel moved in his

chair.“Andnow,dearlady,Imust leave you. We willcollect your herd in threedaysandhopethatbeefpricesare better in Abilene thantheywereafewmonthsago.”He bowed and kissed Kate’shand. “By all that’s holy,ma’am, under all thatgingham and lace you are awoman to be reckoned with.

You will go far and cut awidepathorI’veneverseenarancherbefore.”Wright rose. “Mrs.

Kerrigan, don’t you concernyourselfnoneaboutthemtwoyou hung. They were menwhoneededkilling,andthat’sthe beginning and the end ofit.” He touched his hat.“Gooddaytoyou,ma’am.”Only when the two men

had gone did Kate Kerriganallowherselfatear.

CHAPTERTEN

“Let him go, Mrs.Kerrigan,” Steve Keller said.“I guaranteeTracewill leaveaboyandcomebackaman.”“He’s too young to go up

the trail,” Kate said. “He’sonlyfifteen.”“Around these parts that’s

man-grown, ma’am.” Kellerturned toTrace.“Don’t thinkthat a thousand miles ofChisholm Trail is like a ridein the park. A cattle drive ishard work, making do anddoing without, expecting thebest and getting the worst.It’sridingwet,ridinghungry,riding hurt. It’s laying yourdudsoutoverananthilltogetrid of the vermin and beingtold to do things thatshouldn’t be asked of any

human being. And if you dowhatyou’reaskedtodo,youshould have your headexamined because you’recrazy. A lot of men don’tmake it, somedie, some turnback,butthosewhogoallthewayareforgedinsteelbythefires of hell itself and itshowsinaman’sbearingandhowhethinksofhimselfandtreats others. And now I’vedone enough talking to lastmetherestoftheyear.”

He pushed his plate awayfromhimandgot tohis feet.“Thanks for the bacon andbiscuits. The best breakfastI’ve had in a coon’s age,ma’am. Now I got to bemovingon.”“Where are you headed,

Mr.Keller?”Kateasked.“Fall’s almost here and

winter will come down rightafter it, so I figure I’ll headfor Old Mexico and seewhat’sshakingthesagebrush.

I never was a man for snowand brushing ice off mymustache.”“You are happywithwhat

Ipaidyou?”“You kept up your end of

the bargain,ma’am. I got nocomplaints.”Standing tall and lean in

the small cabin, Keller gaveTrace his hand. “ColonelHunt is a fine man and heknows cattle. You’ll learn alotfromhim.”AndtoQuinn,

whoseeyesglowedwithheroworship, “You’re a goodrider, boy, one of the bestI’ve ever known. Keep upwith them studies of yours,butdon’t let bookshurt youreyes.” To the girls, “You’regrowing into right prettyyoung ladies. Mind your manow.” He shook hands withMoses. “Take care of them,allofthem.”Then Steve Keller was

gone.Amanof theWest,he

was part of it and the Westwas part of him. One couldnotexistwithouttheother.“Ma, I want to join the

drive,” Trace said the nextday. “I won’t stay safe andhomeandseeourcattleleaveandnoKerriganwiththem.”“Trace, you heard what

Mr. Keller said. It’s just toodangerous for a boy yourage.”

“Ma, you were youngerthan me when you lived inthe Four Corners in NewYork.You toldmeonce thateverydaywasastruggle justto exist. It was thatexperience that helped youbecome the strong womanyou are today. Ma, I nolongerwant to be referred toasaboy. Iwant tobecomeaman. So, please don’t coddleme.”Quinn grinned. “Let Trace

go up the trail and you cancoddle me, Ma. I don’tmind.”Kate looked to Moses.

“What do you think?” Katesaid.Theoldmansmiled. “You

askedmethatbecauseyou’vealready made up your mind,MizKate. I say let Trace gowith thecattleand that’s justwhatyouarethinking.”“It’s three months to

Abilene and back, Trace. I’ll

be worried out of my mindthewhole timeyou’regone,”Katesaid.Trace smiled. “Thanks,

Ma. And don’t worry. I’vegot a good rifle and a goodhorse and I can take care ofmyself.”It was with a heavy heart

thatKatewatchedTrace rideaway with the herd. She feltlike a mother seeing her son

go off to war, and indeedthat’swhat itwas.Hewouldfightawarwithcattle,awarwithweather, awarwith thedust,drought,fire,andflood.. . and above all a war withhimself.

CHAPTERELEVEN

Kate Kerrigan loveddappledplaces.Aweek afterTrace left, she rode east intohill country and stopped at afavorite spot she’ddiscovered, a shallow bluffcrested with wild oaks, itsbountiful grass bright with

yellowdamianitaandeveningprimrose. The day was hot,theskyblueexceptforafewwhite clouds that drifted likelilies on a pond, and amild-mannered south wind stirredthetreebranches.She sat at the base of an

oak and as was her habit inrecent days took a rosaryfrom her riding dress andprayed for her son, the pinkbeads clicking through herfingers.

Gunshots, very close,interruptedherdevotions.Her first thought was that

Apaches had waylaid a poortraveler, but then she heardhoarse shouts, the yells andcursesofwhitemen.She rose, put away the

rosary,andslidherHenryoutof the saddle boot. Movingslowly and carefully, shestepped to the edge of thebluff.Downbelowamongthemesquite, a man lay behind

his dead horse, a revolver ineach hand. Less than ahundred yards away threemountedmensattheirhorses,presumably pondering theirnextmove.Itcamesoonenough.The three riders put spurs

to their horses and charged,dust ribboning away frompoundinghooves.Katewantedtocryout,end

it.But themen belowwouldnothearherandeven if they

did,theywouldnotcare.Shelevered her rifle and fired ashot into the air, but thecharging horsemen did notslow their pace or even lookin her direction. They werefiring with Colts, their armsextended in the old guerrillafightingstyle.The man behind the dead

horse stumbled to his feet.Theentireleftsideofhisgrayshirt was scarlet with blood,but it looked like hewas cut

fromthesameclothasTexasRangerLukeTrent.Thewoundedmanworked

his guns steadily and Katesaw a puff of dust rise fromhis pants as he took anotherhit. The range was finallyclose and he came into hiselement.Thumbing hisNavyColts with amazing rapidity,he emptied two saddles andthen the horse of hisremaining assailant stumbledandfell.

Thehorsewentdownhard,kicking up a tremendouscloudofdust.Shewatcheditsrider roll freeuntil theman’sback fetched up hard againstarock.Sheheardhimyell inpain. Big, bearded, anddetermined, he scrambledquickly to his feet and firedthesametimeasthewoundedman. The man in the grayshirt tookanotherhit,but thebigmandroppedhisgunandclapped both hands to his

eyes.Evenatadistance,Katesaw blood seep through hisfingers and pour down theback of his hands in redrivulets.Thebigmanstoodswaying

for a few moments and thenone of his scarlet hands lefthiseyesandhepointedatthemaninthegrayshirt.“That’sfer Will!” he yelled beforepitching forward on his face.He lay still, spread-eagled inthedust.

Kate watched the man inthe gray shirt sway on hisfeet,tryingtoremainupright,but the effort proved toomuch for him. The Coltsdropped from his hands andhefellonhisback.Gun smoke drifted among

themesquiteanddustkickedupbythebattledriftedinthebreeze and began to settle.Thetwosurvivinghorses,onewiththesaddlehangingunderits belly, grazed without

concernasthoughtheviolentdeeds ofmen had nothing todowiththem.Katemountedandtookthe

gradual talus slope that ledfromtheblufftotheflat.Thesunny land was silent butscarred by the roar of guns.She rode with her riflebooted, considering that thedeadposednorisktoher.Shedismountedandoneby

one checked the bodies. Allthreeofthemenwho’dtaken

part in the charge, big, fine-looking fellows, were dead,but theman in the gray shirtstilllived,thoughbarely.Kate found three bullet

wounds. One was a grazingwound to the left side of hischest that for certain hadbroken some ribs. The manhadtakenanotherbulletinhisthigh and a third, probablythe last shot fired by thebeardedman, had hit low onthe right side of his waist

about an inch above the gunbelt. As gently as she could,Kate rolled theman onto hisleftside.Theshothadpassedthrough the man’s waist andexited through the thickmuscles of his lower back.The ball had traveled in astraight line and come outclean,buttheexitwoundwaslarge,ragged,andbloody.She nodded to herself. It

was a death wound all right,unless this man had enough

fortitudetobitebackthepainand battle for his life. Fewdid.Theman’s eyes flew open

andsherecoiledinshock.“What are you doing to

me, woman?” he whispered.“Go away and let me die inpeace.”Once over her surprise,

Kate was not intimidated. “Imay do just that, mister,depending on how youanswermyquestions.”

Theman laughedand thenwincedaspainjoltedthroughhim. “I’m dying here, shotthroughand through,andshewants to ask me questions.Only a female would saythat.”“Who are those men you

killed?” She removed hershawl, folded it, and gentlyplaced it under the man’shead.“Ikilledallthreeofthem?”“Yes,youdid.Areyouan

outlaw?Waitthereaminute.”Shestood.“I’m not going anywhere,

lady.”Kate brought the canteen

fromhersaddleandheldittothe wounded man’s mouth.After he drank, then drankagain, she said, “Who arethose three men? I hopethey’renotpolicemen.”“Policemen? Lady, this

isn’tthebigcity.”“Who are they? Come

now,answerme.”Blood stained the man’s

lips and his breathing waslabored.“IfIansweryouwillyouleavemealone?”She brushed a fly away

fromhisface.“We’llsee.”“Those three called

themselves the White Oakgang.Therewasfourofthematonetime,butIhungoneofthem. Will Stevens was hisname. The two lying overthere are Sid Collins and

DannySadler. I’d sayDannywas the worst of the bunch,made a hobby out of rape, ifyou’ll forgive the word. Theone that done for me in theend was Will’s huggin’cousin, Joe McDermott. Joewas a bad one, but true bluein the way he stuck by hiskinfolk.“There, I’ve told you. Go

away and let me make mypeacewith theManUpstairs.Him and me haven’t exactly

beenon speaking terms.Anddon’t blubber. I can’t abideblubberingwomen.”“Youneedhavenofearof

that...Mister?”“Myname’s FrankCobb.”

HesawthequestioninKate’seyes and said, “OhGod,youain’t ever going away, areyou?”Katemadenoanswer.He sighed. “Joe and them

have been dogging my backtrail for thepast sixweeks. I

was sheriff of a small townontheBrazosbythenameofLast Chance when I hungWill Stevens for murder andattempted bank robbery.Well,Joemadeitknownthatthe White Oak Gang wascoming into town to kill meandthenburnLastChancetocinders. When the word gotaround, the nice townsfolkgot together and runme out,saidtheydidn’twanttotakeachance on Joe McDermott.

Well, Joe caught upwithmehere and you know the rest.Now you’re a right prettylady, but leave me the hellalone.”“Thinkyoucanride?”“Lady, I’m all shot to

pieces. Hell no, I can’t ride.All I can do is die with aslittle fuss andbother to folksas possible.” Cobb grimacedas another wave of pain hithim. “Hell, I’m surprised Iain’t dead already. You’ve

done near talked me todeath.”Katerosetoherfeet.“You

lay still and drink plenty ofwater. I’ll send my son andhiredmanwithourwagon topick you up. Later, they’llcome back and bury yourhurtingdead.”“Good. I’ll be dead as a

doornailby the time theygethere,”Cobbsaid.Determined, she looked

squarely at him. “No, you

won’t die, Mr. Cobb. Youwon’t die because I do notwishyou todie.Andwhen Idon’twishathing,itdoesnothappen.”

CHAPTERTWELVE

KateKerriganremovedtheballfromFrankCobb’sthighand patched up his otherwounds as best she could.“Nowit’sinGod’shands.”The three dead men were

buried in the bluff above thecabin and the little cemetery

grew. Moses made woodencrosses with their names onthem and Kate said thewords. The Kerrigan familyallowed that outlaws thoughtheywere, themenwere laidto rest in a decent Christianmannerasbefittedwhitemen.The cabin was small and

cramped,butabedwasmadeup for Cobb in what Kateoptimistically called theparlor,aspaceto therightofthe door that was furnished

with a chair, table, andusually a bunch ofwildflowers in a canning jarvase.To everyone’s surprise, he

was sitting up in bed after aweek and could step outsideforfreshairandsunlightafterthree.Kate admired the man’s

grit andonemorningas theysat outside she told him so.“You’reastrong-willedman,Mr. Cobb. And I’m gratified

thatmyeffortsonyourbehalfwerenotinvain.”“I’m beholden to you,

ma’am.AndIdonotsaythatlightly.”Thesunhadrestoredcolor to his face and Kate’scookingwasaddingweighttohis lanky frame. “I owe youmylife.”“First of all, youmay call

me Kate. And secondly, youowe me nothing. I wouldhave done the same for anypoorsoulindistress.”

“WillyoucallmeFrank?”“WhenIdecidethatyou’ve

earned that privilege, Mr.Cobb.”The man grinned and

shook his head. “I’ve nevermet a woman like you . . .Kate.”“There are many like me.

Unfortunately, they’re all inIreland. Do you wish tocultivate that scraggly beard,Mr.Cobb?”“No,ma’am. . .Kate.But

I’ll keep the mustache. It’smyonlyvanity.”“Thenyoumayborrowmy

latehusband’srazor.Andyouwill bathe in the creek withplenty of soap.Andyouwillleaveoffyourclothessotheycan be washed. I will nothavea scragglybeardedmanwho needs a bath and wearsdirty clothes around theKerriganRanch.”

AnotherweekwentbyandFrank Cobb’s appearancepassed Kate’s critical eyes,but only after she personallytrimmedhismustache,tellinghim that a cavalry mustachewasone thing,butadeadrathanging under his nose wasquiteanother.Although he still hadn’t

fully recovered, Cobb didsomechoresaroundthecabinandhelpedQuinnandMoseswith the horses. Despite his

wounds, he moved easily,gracefully, with never awastedmovement.Bynature,hewasnotatalkingman,butwhen Kate or one of theothers, including the girls,engaged him in conversationhe gave them his fullattention and looked straightinto their eyes like a manshould.All in all, Kate was well

pleased with Cobb, not as apotential lover, but as a

steady, hardworking man onwhom she could depend.He’d already revealed hisskill with a gun and beforethemonthwas out hewoulddemonstrateitagain.HackRivettewasscum,an

illiterate, brutish thug whohadsunktothebottomofthefrontier pond andwas happyto exist there amid the slimeandfilth.Hemadealivingby

theft, robbery, and murderandhadadeephatred for allhumanity—man, woman orchild. His only care was thefulfillmentofhisowntwisteddesires. Barely above ananimal, he was vicious,deadly,andwithoutpity.That such a man would

happen upon the Kerrigancabinwasunfortunatebutnotsurprising.WestTexaswasahavenforthelawlesselement—outlaws of every stripe,

gunmen,conmen.Ledbythecarpetbaggers and Yankeesonthemake,theywerehappyto feast on the carcass of theSouth. Hack Rivette fit rightin. He’d found his happyhuntingground.Herodeuptothecabinand

sat his horse, looking theplaceover—finehorsesinthecorral, a milk cow andchickens in the yard, and agood wagon next to thehouse. Rivette smiled to

himself.Itseemedlikeacozyberthtowinterandwithabitof luck, he’d also find awomanthere.In greasy buckskins and a

battered Union kepi, heyelled,“Hello thecabin!”Hepacked twoArmyColts, anda Henry rifle was nestledunderhisrightknee.The door opened

immediately and Katestepped outside, a childclinging to her dress.

Normally, she would haveasked a traveler to light andset, but the look of the mangave her pause and shewished she hadn’t left herrifle behind. “What can I doforyou?”Theridergrinned.Kate watched his eyes

undressher.“I’m a simple man, lady.

Bacon and eggs is what Ineed. Just keep your bratsaway from me, especially

when I’m drinking whiskey.Now come here and put myhoss in the corral, then meand you will get acquainted,like.” Rivette swung out ofthesaddle,andthenhisvoicesuddenly turned harsh. “Dowhat I say,woman.Git overhere and take care of myhoss.ThrowthatdamnedbratoffyourskirtsbeforeIdoit.”Kate was suddenly

frightened.Quinn andMoseswere out hunting and Frank

Cobb . . . well, she didn’tknowwherehewas.Heoftenjust wandered off to be byhimself.“Ma...”Shannonsaid.Kate’sfearturnedtoanger.

“Get back on that horse,mister,andrideoutofhere.Ihavenothingforyou.”“Sure, sure. I’ll ride on

come next spring andmaybeI’ll take you with me ifyou’vebeennice,andImeanrealnice,tome.”Rivetteheld

out the reins. “Now takemyhossifyoudon’twanttofeelthebackofmyhand.”“Theladytoldyoutomove

on,mister.”Frank Cobb’s voice

cracked like a whip in thesilence of the afternoon. Hestood at the corner of thecabin, his lean, ready frameand the guns on his hipstelling the world that therestoodsomebody.Rivette juttedhis slabof a

chin in Kate’s direction. “Isthatyours?”“The lady’s name is Mrs.

Kate Kerrigan and she ownsthe ranch you’re trespassingon. Now get back up in thesaddleandrideonout.”“If that’syours, Iwant it,”

Rivette said to Cobb. “Andeverything that goes with it.Now you get the hell out ofhere and don’t come back. Isee your ugly face aroundhereonemore time I’llputa

bulletinit.”Rivette had intimidated

many weak and timid menandhadkilledafewofthem,but he quickly realized thatFrankCobb didn’t intimidateworth a damn. That meant agunfight. The tall, lean manwith the quiet eyes, steadyhands, and twinColts lookedas though he’d been inshootingscrapesbefore.“I won’t tell you again,

mister,” Rivette said, but a

cowardandbullyatheart,heknew he’d lost the gunfightwithoutashotbeingfired.Cobb stepped away from

the cabin, the ivory handlesofhisrevolversyellowasoldbone. “You got a clearchoice, mister. Pull thosepistolsor shuck thegunbelt.But know that I’m not apatientman.”His heart thumping,

Rivette considered his nextmove. Damn, he was in a

bind. Draw fighter. The tallmanwas a draw fighter, hadto be. He didn’t want anytruck with them Texas fastguns.He saw something thatmade him sick to hisstomach.Katehadsteppedinsidethe

door and come back with aHenryrifle.Thechildwasnolonger with her. She pointedtherifleathim.“Mister,ifhedoesn’tshootyou,Iwill.”“I’ll ride out and be

damned to both of ye,”Rivettesaid.“Shuck the guns first,”

Cobb said. “I don’t want alowlifelikeyoucomingbackherearmed.”“Damn you!” Rivette

squealed as a bullet fromKate’s rifle clipped a neathalf-moon out of the top ofhisleftear.Heputhishandtohis head and it came awaybloody.His reactions were

remarkably swift and Katedecided later that he mighthavebeen sudden enoughonthe draw and shoot. But theman’shandsdidn’tgoforhisguns. They went to thebuckles of his gun belts andhe dropped both of them asthough they were poisonoussnakes.“Stepawayfromtheiron,”

Cobb said. “Yes, that’s it.There’s a good fellow.” Hestepped to the man’s horse

andslid theHenryoutof theboot and tossed it onto thegun belts. “Now we’re allperfectfriendsagain.”“What’s your name,

mister?” Kate said. “Nexttime the Rangers pass thisway, I’ll be sure to let themknow.”“Name’sHackRivette.”“Howvery unfortunate for

you.”“Mrs. Kerrigan, may we

have coffee? I’m sure dear

Mr. Rivette would like acup.”“You go to hell,” Rivette

said.“And bear sign would be

niceifthere’sanyleft,”Cobbsaid.Kate was puzzled. She

loweredherrifleandstaredathim.He winked. “It’s good to

be hospitable to folks.” Atgunpoint,heforcedRivettetositunderacottonwoodtree.

Katebroughtoutthecoffeeanddoughnuts.After Rivette had drunk

coffee and eaten, CobbthumbedbackthehammerofhisColtandshoveditintotheotherman’sbelly.“Comfy?”“Go to hell,” Rivette said,

seethingwithimpotentrage.“NowI’mgoingtotellyou

my life story, Hack,” Cobbsaid. “If I find that you’vedropped off, I’ll take it as apersonal affront and shoot

youintheguts.Isthatclear?”“Gotohell,”Rivettesaid.“Good,thenweunderstand

eachother.Right,herewego.My life began when I wasveryyoung...”The long day shaded into

night and themoon rose andsilvered the sleeping land.The only sound was thesteady drone of one man’svoice and the whimper of

another.Kate looked out the

window several times. Cobband Rivette remained underthe tree. She suggested toMoses that she go outsidewith supper, but the oldmangrinned and shook his grayhead.“Mr.Cobb,he’shadplenty

of rest this last month andfeels like staying awake andtalking. The other manthough,hedon’tseemlikehe

cares to listen. I steppedoutside and heard Mr. Cobbtalkingandtheothermanwasgroaningsomethingterrible.”“It’s a terrible torture,Ma.

Like something theInquisitionwoulddreamup.”Quinn shook his head. “Ieven feel sorry for the badmanoutthere.”At one in the morning

before shewent to bed,Kateopened the door and listenedto what Frank Cobb was

saying.She heard him solemnly

intone, “. . . butmymawashaving none of that. She’dasked forcalicoclothandbygolly she would accept nosubstitute. Mr. Brown thestorekeeper offered hergingham and he said he’dthrow in a dozen sewingneedles for her trouble. Butmy Aunt Agatha, remembershe’stheonewhogrewthemgiantplantsonherporch,the

ones with the caterpillars in’em, well she said that theclothwas for a dress for herandshewastoooldandsetinher ways for gingham.Well,sir, finally Ma decided thatsilk might work for a dress,but Mr. Brown had no silkcloth soAuntAgatha said . ..”Kate quietly closed the

door.LikeQuinn,shealmostfelt sorry for poor Rivette.Almost.

DawncameandCobbwas

still talking on and on.HackRivette still listened, hisglazed eyes staring intospace.Katecameoutofthecabin

with coffee and heard Cobbsay, “. . . but then I had adecision tomake up there inEl Paso. Should I order thebeans and bacon or try thesteak and eggs? Mind you,

flapjackssoundedprettygoodtomethenandsodid—”Rivette had reached his

breakingpoint.Hejumpedtohis feet, spreadhisarms,andyelled, “Kill me! Get it overwith!Ican’ttakeanymoreofyourdamnedlifestory.”Cobbpretendedhurt.“You

don’t like my story, Hack?But I’m only getting started.Wait until you hear aboutAunt Agatha and theaspidistraandMaand—”

“Frank, he’s had enough,”Katesaid.“Lethimgo.”“You called me Frank,”

Cobbsaid.“Yes, well, you earned it

yesterday.”Cobb got to his feet. His

joshing tone gone, he said toRivette, “Ride on out. Nexttime I see you around hereagain,I’llkillyou.”“Myguns—”“Stay where they are. I’m

sureyou’llstealothers.”

Rivette saddled his horseandmounted.“Iwon’t forgetthis,Cobb.”“NorwillI.”Katewatched

themanrideaway.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

ThebadlandstotheeastoftheKerriganRanchhadbeenpretty much picked clean ofwild cattle, but over the nextmonthFrankCobbandQuinnmanaged to bring in anotherfortyheadoflonghorns,mostofthemyoungstuff.

There was no news ofTrace Kerrigan or the herd,butapassingdroversaidhe’dnot heard of bad weather onthe Chisholm, though theApacheswereoutandseveralsmall farms and ranches hadbeen raided. “I ain’t no handto be causing you worry,ma’am,”he said toKate, butitain’tliketheApachestoberaidingthislateinthefall.”“You think it’s something

todowith thecattledrives?”

Kate asked, pouring thepunchermorecoffee.“Might be, ma’am, but

then Apaches are notionalfolksandit’smightyhardforawhiteman to takeastabatwhatthey’rethinking.”Cobbsaid,“Traceisriding

with some good well-armedand mounted men, Kate. Ireckon theApacheswillgivethem a wide berth. They’renotional all right, but notstupid.”

She set the coffeepot backonthestove.“I’llsayarosaryforTrace tonightandask theVirgintokeephimsafe.”The puncher rose to his

feet and touched his hat. “Igot to be riding, ma’am. Ireckon them prayers will getthejobdone.”Cobb was unshaved and

dust lay thick on his rangeclothes.He touched the backof Kate’s hand with the tipsof his fingers. “He’ll be all

right,Kate.Iknowhewill.”A week later, he was

provedwrong.Trace Kerrigan was

brought home in the chuckwagon. His left leg washeavily bandaged and underhis trail tan his face wasashen.Kate had him carried into

thecabinandlaidonherownbed.“Whathappened?Wasit

Apaches?”Grimacing from pain after

abumpycarryintothecabin,Trace didn’t seem muchinclined to answer, so therancher JasonHuntdid it forhim.“NotApaches,ma’am.Itwasawhiteman.”“How did it happen?”

Cobbasked.Huntlookeduncomfortable

andhiswordsdriedup.His segundo Kyle Wright

stepped into the silence. “It

was over a woman, Mrs.Kerrigan.”Katehadbeenattendingto

hersonandlookedlikeshe’dbeen slapped. “Trace . . . awoman . . . I don’tunderstand.”Wright said, “Ma’am, she

was a lady of ill-repute,sometimes referred to as afancywoman.Ihavenowishtooffend,ma’am.”“Mr.Wright, I knowwhat

suchawoman is,”Katesaid.

“In my time, I’ve knownmany.Howdidithappen?”“Well, ma’am, Trace had

never. . .ah. . .beenwithawoman before and the boysthought it would be fun iftheyputmoneyintothehattobuyhimone.”“Fun? And was that also

your idea of fun, Mr.Wright?” Her eyebrows metinafrown.“No ma’am. I was not

aware of such coarse

behavior.”Wright’seyesmetHunt’s,andhequicklylookedaway.From the bed, Trace said,

“I was set up, Ma. I wassittingata tablewith thegirlwhenamansteppedoverandsaid she was his wife. Hedemanded my money, horse,andrifletosatisfyhishonor.”“Orwhat?”Cobbasked.“Or he’d kill me,” Trace

said.Wright said, “It’s an old

trick, ma’am. The crook andthe woman work as a teamand usually they pick on amarried man. But there’s ashortage of such men inAbilene.”Kate took Trace’s hand.

“Whathappened?”Hunt cleared his throat. “I

can tell you that, Mrs.Kerrigan. There was ashooting scrape. Tracerefused to pay the man, hisnamewasCurtisthoughsome

saiditwasCollins,andwhenwords failed, the crookwentforhishideoutgunandputaball into your son. Trace’sriflewas on the table and hefought back. Ma’am, heworkedthatHenrysofast,heshotthatfelleralltopieces.ItwasafairfightandallagreedthatCurtishaddrawnfirst.”“Trace stood his ground

and let no man bully him,Mrs. Kerrigan,”Wright said.“He didn’t dodge the fight,

and I reckon he provedhimselfaman.”“Where is the ball that hit

myson?Isitstillinthere?”“No, ma’am. It was

removed by a mule doctor,and last I looked, it washealingwell.Nosmellof thegasgangreneoranythinglikethat.”“I’ll be the judge of that,”

Katesaid.“Of course you will,

ma’am,”Wrightsaid.

Shannon and Ivy hadclimbed onto the bed andwereconsolingtheirwoundedherowith hugs. For his part,Tracelookedasthoughallhewanted was sleep after hisweeksofjoltingmiseryinthebackofthewagon.“Iknowit’shardlythetime

to talk business, Mrs.Kerrigan, but it has to bedone.” The rancher lookedthin and worn, but everyonewho went up the trail and

back bore the traces of theirhardship. “The count inAbilene was nine hundredunbranded Kerrigan cows.Beef prices are still low, butafter shipping costs andagent’sfees,Imanagedthirtydollars a head. I knew you’dprefer cash to a bank draftso”—Hunt took a paper sackfrom his coat pocket—“thishereistwenty-seventhousanddollars inYankeegreenbacksandgoldcoin.”

Kate took the sack, herface thoughtful. “I’ve neverhad this much money beforeinmylife.”“I’m sure you’ll put it to

gooduse,Mrs.Kerrigan. It’sthelastmoneyyou’llseeuntilafter the gather next spring.”Hunt touched his hat brim.“I’ll be going now, Mrs.Kerrigan.” With a smallsmile,headded,“Youcanbeproudofyourson.Heplayedthe man’s part on the drive

and proved his worth inAbilene.Tracewillmakehismarkoneday.”

CHAPTERFOURTEEN

September brought coolertemperaturesandhighwinds.Tracehealedwiththeseason,but Kate saw a difference inhim. He was quieter, morereserved, and less inclined toroughhouse with Quinn orplay ring-around-the-rosy

with the girls. He was stillwillingtodoanythingKateorCobb,recentlymadesegundoof theKerriganRanch,askedofhim,buthekepttohimselfmuch of the time, his noseburied in a volume of therecently acquired CompleteWorks ofCharlesDickens orGibbon’s History of theDecline and Fall of theRomanEmpire.One afternoon when a

raging east wind rattled the

new glass windows of thecabin and made the stovechimney gust smoke into theliving area, Kate took Cobbaside and asked if he couldexplain her son’s change inbehavior.Cobb smiled. “Kate, he’s

grown from a boy to aman,that’s all. It’s nothing toworryabout.”“Is this how it was with

you, Frank? Can youremember?”

“Sure I can remember. IwasaboutTrace’sagewhenIhadmy first woman and notmucholderwhenIkilledmyfirst man. Certain thingshappen in a boy’s life thatchange him, mostly for thebetter, sometimes for theworse. Trace is one of thebetter ones, but he knows hestill has to prove himself,prove thathe’sworthyof themanhoodwe’ve bestowed onhimandheknowshisgreatest

challengesareyettocome.”Kate frowned. “You mean

making our ranch a success,building a Kerrigan dynastythat will last for a hundredyearsandmaybetwo?”“That’s part of it, Kate. I

can’t readTrace’smind, so Idon’t know what else hethinks. Maybe just beingexpectedtolivetherestofhislife as a man and not a boyscares him. This is a hardland,Kate.Ittestsaman. . .

and awoman . . . constantlyandneverletsup.”“What do I do to help

him?”“Nothing. Just let him be.

OnlyTracecanworkitout.”Trace caught a drift of

wood smoke borne on thewind thatstirred thegrassontopoftheridge.Inthelonelyhill country it could be apuncher riding the grub line

who’ddecidedtomakecampearlyoritcouldbetrouble.Itsmelledliketrouble.Trace swung out of the

saddle and, crouching as lowas his still hurting legwouldpermit, he stepped carefullyto theedgeof thewindsweptrise and looked down on thevastsweepofthelandbelow.It was rolling hill countrythickwithscatteredmesquite,piñón, and a few red oak.Coming in hard off the Gulf

of Mexico, the south windwasstrongenoughtoliftveilsof dust from the dry groundand toss the branches of themesquite and piñón into afrenzied dance. The smokewas rising briefly frombehind a hill where the redoak grew before it wasshreddedbythewind.He remounted and

searched for a way off theridge but everywhere helooked the rock face toward

the smoke was thirty feetstraight down.He decided togo back the way he’d comeand loop around the base ofthe rise, a twenty-minutedetour in a wind that tore athim and his horse. The bigThoroughbred weathered thestorm and once among themesquite, Trace slid theHenry out from under hisknee and rode toward thesmoke.Squatterswereapossibility

andoutlawswereanother.Hediscounted the possibility ofLipan Apaches. They wereunlikely to have a fire thatsmokedsomuchitgaveawaytheir presence. Only whitemendidthat.A few yards of the hill,

Traceswungoutofthesaddleand went forward on foot.Not Indians or white men.Blanket-wrappedMexicans—a man, woman, and threechildren—huddled around a

mesquite fire that smokedbetterthanitburned.“Howdy.” Trace held his

rifleacrosshisthighs,asightthat made the woman afraid.“ThisisKerriganland.”In truth,Kate claimed any

land she could ride a horseover.Trace didn’t move. “What

areyoudoinghere?”The man rose to his feet.

He wore the shapeless whitecotton garb of a peasant and

the wind tugged at thesombrerohepulledlowdownonhishead. “We’renothereto steal, señor.” He spokehesitant missionary-taughtEnglish. “We are lost. Nofood for the niños orourselves.”“Where are you from?”

Traceasked.“Chihuahua, señor. But

thereisnoworkathomeandmy wife and I seekemployment.”

Traceshookhishead.“It’sawonderyou’realivetoseekanything. The Apaches areout.Didn’tyouknowthat?”The man shook his head.

“No, señor. We did notknow.” One of the childrenstarted to cry, and he said,“Sheishungry.”“Damnit. I tooka ridefor

myhealth’ssake,butIdidn’tcountonmeetingpilgrims.”“Iamsorry,señor.Wewill

moveoffyourland.”

“Wait. I have grub,probably enough for threehungry men.” Trace backedaway to his horse and untiedthe sack his mother had tiedto the saddle. Shewould notlet him leave the cabinwithouthislunch.He returned to the

Mexicans with the sack.“What did I tell you? Beefsandwiches and a piece ofdried apple pie.Maybe driedapplepiedoesn’tsoundgood,

butitis.”“Toahungryman,allfood

sounds good,” the Mexicansaid.Trace passed the sack to

the man. “I guess there’senoughtofeedallofyou.”“Butyoumusteat, señor,”

themansaid.Although he was hungry,

Tracesawaneedgreaterthanhis own. “I’ll get somethinglater.Iateabigbreakfast.”The adults fed the hungry

children first—and this metwith Trace’s approval—before they shared what wasleft.Thefoodseemedtohelp.The button-eyed childrensmiled shyly at Trace andtheirparents,thoughstillthinand gaunt, were moreanimated.“We will leave your land

now, señor,” the man said.“Thank you for what youhavedoneforus.”“Wherewillyougo?”

The man shrugged.“Whereveragoodblacksmithis needed.” He smiled. “Anda Mexican woman who cancook.”“Thefallishere.Andnext

thing you know, winter willbecrackingdownhard.Yourchildren could die in thiscountry.”“They will most certainly

die in my own country if Ican’t feed them,” the mansaid.

“You better come withme,” Trace said, making uphis mind. The KerriganRanchcoulduseablacksmithand a good cook. A thoughtstruckhim,andhestaredintothe Mexican’s eyes. “Anyman can call himself ablacksmithwhoisnot.”“That is so, señor.” The

little man reached into thesackhiswifehadcarriedandproduced a foot-long bowieknife.HepassedittoTrace.

He examined the bladeclosely and tested the edge.“It’s a beautiful knife. ThebestbowieI’veeverseen.”The Mexican nodded.

“Any man who can forge asteel blade from a piece ofrawironisablacksmith.Youmay keep it, señor. It is mygift.”Traceshookhishead.“Itis

a finegift,but it’s toomuch.Perhaps one day you canmakemeonejustlikeit.”He

returned the knife. “Yourwife and the little ones canride my horse. The KerriganRanchisnotfar.”“He’s a blacksmith, Ma,”

Trace said. “Every ranchneedsagoodblacksmith.”Kateglancedout thecabin

window.“He looksabit tinyto be a blacksmith.” Shesmiled.“‘Underthespreadingchestnut tree the village

smithy stands; The smith, amighty man is he with largeand sinewy hands; And themuscles of his brawny armsare strong as iron bands.’”Kate turned and frowned atTrace. “Mr. Longfellow tellsus how a real blacksmithshouldlook.”She turned to the window

again. “His wife is quitepretty.Whatcanshedo?”Trace deadpanned, “She’s

acook.”

“A cook?”Suddenly,Katewas interested. She couldbakeameanspongecake,butthatwasaboutthelimitofherculinary skills. Itwasnot fornothing that she so oftenpraised the Good Lord forcreating bacon and beans.“Can she cook for whitefolks?”“I’m sure she can. Why

don’tyouaskher,Ma?”“Iwill.What’shername?”“Idon’tknow.”

Katefrowned.“Youdidn’task?”“No. It didn’t seem

importantatthetime.”“Well,ifshecancook,it’s

importantnow,isn’tit?”The Mexican woman’s

name was Jazmin Salas andher husband’s name wasMarco. Yes, she could cookforwhite folksandanyothercolor of folks, come to that,

and yes, Marco was a fineblacksmith and very goodwithhorses.“Can you bake Queen

Victoria’s favorite spongecake?”Kateasked.Jazmin was hesitant, then

shesaid,“Ihaveneverheardofit,señora.”Kate was pleased. “Good.

Because that I will makemyself.”

Since there was noaccommodation for Kate’sextra staff, Marco Salas saidthey could sleep outsideunder the shelter of a tree orsomesuch.Kate wouldn’t hear of it.

“Until a suitable house foryou and your family can bebuilt, you must live in thecabin.”Trace pointed out that the

cabin was alreadyovercrowded.

Kate said, “Then we mustmakedo,mustn’twe?”Trace wondered what

QuinnandFrankwouldthinkof that, but theywere out ontherange...withtroublesoftheirown.

CHAPTERFIFTEEN

After finding a half-devoured carcass of ayearling longhorn, Cobb andQuinn rodewith riflesacrosstheirsaddlebowsandsathighin the saddle, their searchingeyes constantly scanning thevastterrainaroundthem.

In the worst of times, theterrainwestof thePecoswasa wilderness of thorn, rock,and dust. But following thewet spring and summer, itwasthebestof timesandtheflatsweregrassyandcoveredwith mesquite, acacia, andwhitebrush. Small trees likewalnut,oak,andMexicanashwere confined to the arroyosand creek terraces where ablack bear with a taste forgrass-fedbeefwouldholeup

tosleepoffameal.“Trackshead south toward

the canyon country,” Cobbsaid.“OldEphraimisnofool.But he’ll be back, count onit.”“Judging by the tracks,

he’sabigbear,”Quinnsaid.Cobb nodded. “He’s a big

maleallright,andhe’llgosixhundred pounds and more.”Hishorse tossed itsheadandthebitjingledinthequiet.“Ablack bear ain’t much

inclinedtoattackhumans,butif he does, watch out. Agrizzlynow,hemaybeatyouup some and let you go, butnot a black bear. He’ll killyoueverytime.”Quinnsmiled.“Nicefeller,

huh?”Cobb shrugged. “It’s just

his way. As a rule, Ol’Ephraim minds his ownbusiness,butthisonemaybeold and can’t hunt his usualprey. He’s decided Kerrigan

yearlings are easy tokill andhe’ll come back every timehe’shungry.”“So what do we do,

Frank?”Quinnasked.“The yearling’s innards

werestillwarmandthetracksare fresh, so he’s still close.Wefindhimandkillhimandtake his skin home to yourma.” Cobb gave the boy asearching look. “You up forit?”“I don’t know. I’ve never

chasedabearbefore.”Cobb smiled. “Well, that’s

honest.Ireckonyou’lldojustfine.”Thedaywaswarmwithno

hintofthecomingfall.Asoftsouthwindwalkedacrossthelonggrassandbore thescentof late summer wildflowers.Ofthebeartherewasnosign,onlyitstracks.Therollingcountrywascut

through by drywatercourses,and here and there grewpatches of wild oak. A fewcottonwoods stood by thestreambeds and seemed tohave prospered during thesummer. A few fat cattlegrazed,but theywereawaysoff the range Kate hadclaimed for herself andprobably bore Colonel JasonHunt’sHbarHbrand.Quinn, with his sharp

young eyes, saw the arroyo

first, its entrance almosthidden by mesquite. “There,Frank! Over there by thetrees.”Cobbdrewreinandstudied

thearroyoanditssurroundingridge. To the right of theentrance dropped a talusslope overgrown by bunchgrass, and to the left was asheer rock face about thirtyfeethigh.Heswungoutofthesaddle

andwalkedinthedirectionof

thearroyo,castingaroundfortracks. After a while, hewaved at Quinn to come on.Theboygatheredupthereinsof Cobb’s horse and rodeforward.“He headed for the arroyo

all right,” Cobb said.“Mesquite usually meansthere’s water close. Seemslike he has himself all thecomforts of home.” Hestepped into the saddle.“Let’s roust him out.

Ephraim, I reckonyour cow-killingdaysareover.”Cobb and Quinn

dismountedattheentrancetothearroyo,anarrowfissureinthe rock face about fifteenfeetwide.Forlongmoments,Cobb listened into theafternoon. The only soundswere the small music ofcrickets in the grass and therustle of the wind. His eyes

liftedtothetopoftheridge.Quinn understood his

thinking. “Canwe get a shotfromupthere?”After a moment, Cobb

shook his head. “The arroyonarrows toward the crest andwill limit our field of fire.Theonlywayistogoinafterhim.” His eyes met Quinn’s.“I can’t say I’m lookingforwardtoit.”Quinn grinned. “Real glad

to hear you say that, Frank,

because neither am I.” Hebowed.“Afteryou.”Cobb took a single step

into the canyon . . . andwasinstantly hit by a runawaylocomotive in the shape ofthree hundred pounds ofsnarling fury. The bearflattened him, slamming allthe breath out of him. Hisrifle spun out of his handsandclatteredagainst thewallof the arroyo. In a splitsecond,theanimalslashedits

claws across Cobb’s chestandthenitwaspasthim.Startled, Quinn fired his

Henry from the hip, missed,and fired again. He hit thebear just behind the leftshoulder blade and scored alungshot.Coughingupfrothyblood, the bear staggered onfor about fifty yards andcollapsed.Cobbwasshooting!Quinn ran to the entrance

of the arroyowhere theman

wasupononeknee,firinghisrevolver. Quinn stepped intothe canyon, his rifle ready.About thirty yards away,almost lost in gloom, hecaughtafleetingglimpseofahuge,black,shamblingshape.Quinn tried a snap shot, buthis bullet hit off a wall andchippedrock.Spaaang!From somewhere in the

distance, the black bearroareditsdefiance.A man doesn’t track a

game animal cross-countrywithout learning somethingabout him, and there wasnothingaboutthisbearQuinnliked. The roar had anunusualquality,asthoughthebig boar had yelled, “Here Iam.ComegetmeorI’llcomegetyou.”He was a bear to be

reckonedwith.Cobb got to his feet. The

front of his faded blue shirtwas ripped to shreds and

scarlet with blood. He fedpapercartridgesintohisColt,then looked at Quinn, noblame inhis eyes. “You shotthe wrong bear, kid. YoukilledEphraim’smate.”“It’s early fall and mating

season is well over,” Quinnpointed out. “They shouldn’thavestillbeentogether.”“No, they shouldn’t. This

is a mighty unusual bear.”Cobb holstered his revolverthen picked up his rifle. “I

think I got a bullet into him.Let’sfinishit.”The shadowed arroyo was

dank.Atthebaseofitswallsolive green ferns grew, thelike that Quinn had neverseenbefore.Aheadofhimthecanyon narrowed and thenstopped at a wall of rockbeforemakingasharpturntothe right. Fed by anunderground stream, a thintrickleofwater randowntherockfaceandsplashed intoa

natural rock tank that wasgreenwithalgae.Feeling the effects of his

mauling, Cobb slowed hisstep as he turned to his rightand followed the course ofthe arroyo. Each breath hetookwasshallow—asthoughit pained him—and everynow and then, he leaned ahandon thewall for support.Quinn grew anxious. Heknewthesegundowasalmostout on his feet and needed

medicalhelpthathecouldnotgive.Gradually the arroyo grew

wider and then opened upintoacircularareaabouthalfan acre in extent. A gnarledmesquitegrewto therightofan undercut in the rock thatwasabouteightfeethigh,thesamewide and seemed to beseveralfeetdeep.“Bones,” Quinn said. “It

lookslikeagraveyard.”Bones—some white, most

yellowed—carpeted the areainfrontofthecut.Afewstillhad streaks of red meat andshredded tendon clinging tothem. Quinn identified deer,pronghorn antelope,jackrabbit,birds,cattleand...ahumanskullandpartialribcage.Cobb took a knee next to

thehumanremains.“Afairlyrecent kill, but some of theanimal bones are years old.We’re looking for a mighty

elderlybear.”“Is that why he killed a

human?” Quinn swallowedhard.“Andatehim.”“Yeah. Seems like

Ephraimisgrowingtoooldtohunt his regular prey.Youngcowsandhumansareeasytokill.” Cobb studied the skull.“It’s a woman in this case.ShewasprobablyMexicanorLipan.”Cobb slowly . . . very

slowly...liftedhishead...

then his eyes . . . “Oh myGod,”hewhispered.Quinn followed the man’s

gaze to the top of the arroyorim. The bear’s head was inplain sight. Its emotionlessblack eyes stared hard atQuinn as though markinghim, remembering everyaspectofhisfeatures.“Damnyou!”Cobbyelled.

He dropped his rifle, drew,and hammered five shots atthe rim. But the bear was

alreadygone.All Cobb managed to do

wasshootholesinthewind.Quinn quickly made his

way to the entrance of thearroyo and ran outside, hisHenry at the ready.His eyessearchedthetopof theridge,but he saw nothing except abroadswathofbluesky.Theancient talus slopewas closeand he tried to climb it, butthe inclinewas toosteepandhemanaged to only scrabble

afewfeetbeforeslidingbackto the flat, shingle showeringaroundhim.“He’s gone,” Cobb yelled,

making his way out of thearroyo. “We’ll find himanotherday.”ItwasonlythenthatQuinn

sawhowashenwastheman’sfaceandthepaininhiseyes.ThefrontofCobb’sshirtwasabloodymess.“I’d better get you home,

Youlookallusedup.”

“Anangrybearcandothatto a man.” Cobb collapsedand Quinn had to help himintothesaddle.

CHAPTERSIXTEEN

For a week, Frank Cobbhovered between life anddeath, Kate at his sideconstantly. Jazmin Salas,whose father had been arespected village healer,prepared various potions andsalves from herbs, trees, and

cactus that seemed to helpCobb’spain.Ontheeighthdayafterthe

bear attack, his fever brokeand that nightKatewas abletofeedhimalittlebeefbroth.As Quinn’s worry about

Frank faded, he and Tracehadotherconcerns.Theyhaddiscovered bear tracks andscattheirsideoftheBrazos—once not a hundred yardsfrom the cabin—and anabandonedbed inaclumpof

wild oak that the bear hadmade comfortable with amattress of leaves and treebark.Theyfoundnosignthattheanimalhadeatenrecently,even ignoring some rottentree trunks itwouldnormallyhave torn apart to feast oncarpenterants.“Chances are that it’s not

thesamebear,”Tracesaid.“It’sthesamebear,”Quinn

said.“He’sgotFrank’sbulletin him and he followed us

here.”Trace looked into his

brother’seyesandsawaglintof fear that couldn’t beexplained away as just theteenager’svividimagination.“All right. We hunt him,”

Tracesaid.“Ifhe’sbeenshotalready,he’llwanttoholeupand he’s got a comfortablebedrighthere.”“Don’t tell Ma, Trace,”

Quinn said. “She’s alreadyworriedenoughaboutFrank.”

Trace nodded. “We won’ttell her until we kill yourbear.”“FrankcallshimEphraim.”“Thatwasthenametheold

mountain men gave to a bigmalegrizzly.”Quinnpulled a face. “This

bear is a lotmore dangerousthananygrizzly.”Because of the

overcrowding in the cabin,

TraceandQuinnspread theirblankets outside. The nightswere not yet too cold andmade for comfortablesleepingweather.An hour before dawn,

Trace shook Quinn awakeand held a forefinger to hislips.Quinn rolled out of his

blanketsandgrabbedhisrifle.When they were out ofearshotof thehouse,hesaid,“Ifhe’s inbed,wecanshoot

himwhilehe’sasleep.”Trace smiled and his teeth

gleamedwhite in thewaningmoonlight. “Not verysporting,isit?”“This isn’t sport,” Quinn

said. “This is kill or bekilled.”“This bear really has you

spooked, young brother,”Tracesaid,stillsmiling.“You’ll see, Trace. You’ll

see.”

Thebedwasempty,buttheferal,muskysmellofthebearhungintheair.Tracekneeledand placed his hand on theleafy mattress. “It’s stillwarm. Damn bruin heard uscomingandlitashuck.”Quinn’s hands were white

knuckledonhisHenry.“He’sclose.Icansensehim.”“Look.”Traceheldouthis

hand palm up, showing a

smearofbloodfromthebaseof his thumb to his middlefinger. “Frank shot him allright.He’sstillbleeding.”From somewhere among

the shadowed trees, came agrowl,low,menacing...andclose.Trace liftedhis rifle into a

firing position. “Where thehellishe?”“Idon’tknow.Hisgrowlis

coming from everywhere,”Quinnsaid.

The two youngmen stoodtogether, their rifles at theready. A thin dawn lightfiltered through the trees,butshadowsstilllaylikeinkblotson the land—dark,mysterious, and hinting ofunseendangers.“Backoutofhere,Quinn,”

Trace said. “Slowly . . . andI’llcoveryou.”“No,I’mstayingrighthere

withyou,Trace.”The bear’s growl prowled

through the morning quietand reached out for theKerrigan brothers like agrasping hand. Trace lookedwildly around him. Wherewas the damned animal?“Quinn!”heyelled. “It’syouhe wants. Back away like Itoldyou.”The roar of Quinn’s rifle

wasanemphaticno!“Where is he?” Trace

yelled.“Didyougethim?”“Upthere,besidethefallen

tree!”“Idon’tseehim!”Quinn fired again. “I saw

him! I saw him!” he yelled.“Look!He’stherebythetree,standingonhishindlegs!”Trace looked and saw

nothing but shadow. Hestepped to his brother,grabbedhimby the arm, andyelled, “We’re getting out ofhere!”“Did I hit him? Did you

seehim?”

“No.Youwereshootingata shadow.” Trace pulledQuinnbythearm.“Let’sgo.”The bear seemed to come

outofnowhere.Trace turned at the last

secondandtookthefullbruntof the animal’s charge. Thebear slammed into him withthe force of a runawaybrewery horse and Trace fellon his back, all the windknocked out of him.Turningon a dime, the bear changed

directionandwentforQuinn,its slavering, fanged mouthwideopen.Boom!The sound of a large-

caliber weapon hammeredacross the aborning day.Startled, but not hit, the bearbroke off the attack andvanishedintothetrees.Moses Rice, his smoking

dragoon in his hand, raisedthe big revolver for anothershot, but lowered it again.

“That bear is in the nextcounty by now.” His ebonyface concerned, he looked ateachboycarefully.“Eitherofyouboyshurt?”“Only our pride, Mose,”

Trace said, picking himselfupofftheground.Quinn’s face was ashen,

his Henry clutched tightly inhis hands. “For a minutethere,IthoughtIwasdead.”“Don’t play around with

bears,no,”Mosessaid.“Look

what happened toMr. Cobb,lyingalltoreupan’hurtin’inMizKerrigan’sbestbed.”“Mose, it was the same

bear,” Quinn said. “Hefollowedushome.”“LotofblackbearsinWest

Texas,”Mosessaid.Quinn shook his head.

“Notlikethisone.”“Did you tell your Ma?”

Mosesasked.“No.Ididn’twanttoworry

her,”Quinnsaid.

“Don’t worry MizKerrigan, no,” Moses said.“She’s got enough worriesright now. You boys waithere.”Moses followed the path

the bear had taken and wassoonlostamongthetrees.Hewas gone for thirty minutesandwhenhereturnedhisfacewas solemn. “We leave thebearalone.”Trace agreed. “Hell, that’s

finebyme.”

“No,” Quinn said. “Hetookusbysurprise this time,butwe’llkillhimnexttime.”“Letthebearbe!”It was the first time Trace

and Quinn had ever heardMosesraisehisvoice.TheKerrigan boyswalked

backthecabininsilence,butMoses’s lips moved asthoughinprayer.WhenTracelistened closely, he realizedthe old black man wasspeaking in a tongue he did

not understand. His was aprayer in the old language, aslavebenediction thathad itsbeginning hundreds of yearsbefore in the darkest reachesofAfrica.

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

Septembercameandwent,andthebearsignbecamelessevident. Trace and Quinnfigured the animal had givenupandwasprobablyholedupinahollowlogsomewheretosleepawaythewinter.Frank Cobb, as tough a

man as the West had everproduced, was up and aboutand showed little lastingeffects from his close brushwith death. Moses wasstrangely withdrawn, andtook to walking thesurrounding hills and forestswithhisColt’sDragoonstuckin his waistband. If he sawanything on his rambles, henevermentionedit.OneIndiansummerday in

earlyOctober, following two

weeks of cold, Kate decideditwas high time to leave thecabinandcheckonhercattleandthestateoftherange.Hersons had already done itmany times, but she insistedshewantedtoseeforherself.“Ineedtogetoutforawhile.Thecabinwallsareclosinginonme.”Shesteppedoutside.Theboysfollowedher.“Ma,wedidn’twanttotell

youthis,butwe’veseenbeartracks out there,” Trace

finally told her. “We thinkit’s thesameonethat toreupFrank.”“And I’ve never seen a

bearbefore?”“This one is dangerous,”

Quinn said. “Maybe it’sstalkingus.”“Whendidyou last see its

tracks?”sheasked.Quinnshrugged.“Amonth

ago,Iguess.”Kate sighed. “Then it’s

longgone. I’ll takealong the

Henry and my derringer. IassureyouI’llbequitesafe.”“I’ll ride along with you,

Ma,” Trace offered. “Just tobesafe.”“No,Iwanttobealonefor

a little while. I need to getsome fresh air and clear myhead.”Traceprotested.“Ma—”“Don’t you boys have

chorestodo?FrankandMoseneedhelpwiththeadditiontothe cabin they’re building.”

She stepped into thesidesaddle and arranged herdress over her legs. Shewasabout to leave when FrankCobb put a halting hand onthebridle.“The boys are right, Kate.

You should stay close tohomeforawhile.”“Frank, I’m a grown

womanandIcantakecareofmyself. Now give me theroad.”“Then take Trace with

you,”Franksaid.As always when Kate

Kerrigan got mad, her Irishaccentgrewstronger.“Letgoof my horse this minute,Frank Cobb, or do I have totakemyridingcroptoyou?”“You’re a strong-willed

woman, Kate Kerrigan,”Cobbsaid,shakinghishead.“And you don’t know the

half of it. Will you give metheroad?”Frank smiled, stepped

back,andbowedashesweptoff his hat. “By all means,dearlady.”After Kate rode away

Trace said, “We should havestoppedher.”Franksaid,“Youcan’tstop

a force of nature, and that’swhat KateKerrigan is . . . abeautifulforceofnature.”Trace smiled. “You love

myMa,don’tyouFrank?”“Madly. And she’s a

woman, so she’s well aware

ofthat.”“Then ask her to marry

you,”Quinnsaid.“And grab a handful of

stars while I’m at it,” Cobbsaid. “One is quite asimpossible as theother.Katehas a much more desirablesuitor . . . it’s the fair landwe’re standing on and herplansforitsfuture.”Ah,butitwaswonderfulto

beyoungandstrongandfeelthe power of the fine horseunder her and the windtangled in her hair. Kategalloped for a couple miles,thenheldherhorsetoacanterandfinallyatrot.It was good cow country

withplentyofgrassandwaterand itwashers. Inhermind,thataddedgreatlytoitsvalue.The cattle she saw still heldtheir summer fat and lookedhealthy and content and she

anticipated that come springthere would be plenty ofcalvesontheground.Shedrewreinandwatched

a big grulla steer that musthave gone almost twothousandpoundscomeupoutofadrawfollowedbyseverallanky youngsters. The grullawasagitatedandhetossedhishead and snorted, the greatsweep of his horns catchingthe morning sunlight. Hestopped, turned, and looked

backatthedraw,thenswunghis massive head in Kate’sdirection, glaring red-eyedand mean at her. The pointsof his horns were needle-sharp and as dangerous ascavalry lances and he didn’tseemtobeinthemoodtobesociable.If the huge steer charged,

sheknewshe’dbeinaworldof trouble, but to her relief,afteracoupleoffeints inherdirection, the longhorn

thoughtbetterofitandtrottedaway.Theothersfollowed.Kateswallowedhard.That

had been close, and to hersurprise her hands on thereins trembled. Something orsomeone in the draw hadspookedthesteer—ananimalthat feared nothing on earth,animalorhuman—andithadto be investigated. She slidthe Henry from the boot,heeledherhorse into awalk,and headed toward the draw,

the sun warm on hershoulders. Kate told herselfthat she was being foolishgoing it alone and that sheshouldturnaroundandgoforhelp. But whatever hiddendangerlayinthedrawwouldprobablybegonebythetimeshegotback.She sensed a threat to the

Kerrigan Ranch and shecouldnotletitgo.She eased into the draw,

the Henry across her thighs,

andwoundherwayaroundafewtrees,herpertnosehigh,testing the breeze. Shesmelled only cattle and sun-warmed grass. For a fewmoments, she sat her horse,studying the way ahead. Shethought she saw a tawnypatch of color in the brush,readiedtheHenry,andmovedslowly toward it. Shesuspected a cougar, and thatwould explain the oddbehavior of the grulla steer.

Whatever it was, her horsewantednopartofit.Heactedup, reared, and tried to turn,alarm showing white in hiseyes. Kate fought her mountfor a few moments then lethimswingaroundandtrotoutofthedraw.Ascared,restlesshorsedid

not make for a steady rifleplatform.Kate stepped out of the

saddle and the horse trottedaway.Afteraboutfiftyyards,

he figured he’d put enoughdistancebetweenhimandthedrawandloweredhisheadtograze.By nature,Katewas not a

profanewoman,butshehadafew choice words to sayabout the equine species asshe walked back toward thedraw. Once among the trees,she readied her rifle andstepped warily toward thebrush where she’d seen thepatchofcolor.

A moment later, herinstinct for danger clamoredand she stopped. Slowly, alittleatatime,sheturnedherhead to the left. The biggrulla steer stood glaring ather, his head lowered, hisglossyhidethecolorofagunbarrel. Tension between theanimal and the womanstretched taut as a fiddlestring.Finally,Katemanageda tight smile and said, “I’vegotnoquarrelwithyou.”

The steer jerked up hishead in surprise as sunlightrippled on his horns, scaringheroutofherwits.Nonetheless, Kate

straightened her back andwalked on. If she had to,she’d use the rifle, but sheknew that was a losingproposition. Even with abullet in him, the longhornwouldkeeponcomingandhewouldn’t stop until he killedher.Halfexpectingthepound

of hooves behind her, sheshortened her step, her headslightly tilted toward thedanger.But the grulla steer stayed

wherehewas.One danger down, another

togo . . .KateKerrigan stillhadacougartocontendwith.Buttherewasnocougarin

thebrush . . . justadeadoldrangecow.

The cow’s neck had beenbrokenbywhat lookedlikeapowerful blow and her bellyhad been ripped open bysharp claws. Her intestinesspilledovertheground,anditlooked to Kate that the liverand heart had been eaten. Itwasnottheworkofacougaror even a mountain lion. Abigger, stronger predator haddoneit.Kate swallowed hard. The

black bear Trace and Quinn

hadwarnedherabouthadnotlefttheKerriganrange....It was in the draw and it

wasclose.

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

Gradually, Kate becameaware of two sounds. Onewasadistant thundercomingupfromtheGulf, theotheradifferent kind of thunder andmuch closer . . . the spine-chillinggrowlofabear fromhell.

Shebackedaway from thecarcass of the cow, her rifleswingingthiswayandthatasshe frantically tried to coverallthepointsofthecompass.She needn’t have bothered.The bear’s roaring frontalattackcamerightforher.Time and space shattered

into fragments just splitsecondslong.She fired once.Almost on

topofher,shesawthebear’sopen, fangedmouth, smelled

the rotten meat stench of itsbreath.Hit by a clawedpaw,the Henry spun out of herhand, then razor-sharp clawsthe size of sickles slashed atherhead.Thebearroared.Kate Kerrigan’s life was

savedbycowdung.Theheelofherridingboot

camedownonaballofdungthat had hardened in the suninto the consistency ofknotted oak. The ball rolledunder her foot, and she lost

her balance and stumbledawkwardly to her left. Shewas spared the full savagepower of the bear’s slashingclaws that would have killedher,buttheyrakedacrossthetopofherrightbreast,rippingapart the fabric of her dressand slashing open the skinunderneath.Inpain,Katetumbledonto

her back. Her hand droppedto the pocket of her ridingdress and fumbled for the

derringer she kept there. Itwasgone,lostinherfall.Thefuriousbearloomedoverher,poised for the kill. Salivafrom its openmouth drippedonto her bare right shoulderandmingledwithherblood.“DearGod,forgivemysins

...”shewhispered.The bear roared, ready to

attack, and then came thesoundofanotherthunder.Moving at the speed of a

galloping racehorse, the

grulla longhorn’s loweredhead,drivenbyatonofboneandmuscle,slammedintothebear’s exposed side. Its ribscaved in and the bear wasthrown to the ground. Thesteer was relentless. Its hugeanvil-shaped head swungback and forth, plunging hishorns deep into the bear’sbody.The bear rose unsteadily

and stood tall. It snarled andraised its paws, shuffling

forward to mount an attack.But weakened by thepounding it had taken fromthe steer’s head and horns,the bearwas vulnerable. Thebig steer lowered its headagain for another charge andcrashed into the bear’s belly,its horns doing terribledamage. Done, the bear fellonhisbackandthesteerwentin for the kill. Its hornsplunged again and again intothebear’sbody, tearingapart

flesh, spilling ropes ofentrails into the dust. Thegrullasteerkeptuptheattacklong after the bear was deadanditdidnotquituntilonlyatangled mass of blood, hair,andshatteredbonelayontheground.Finally satisfied, the

longhorn trotted backward afew feet, then swung aroundto faceKate. The longhorn’ssteamingheadwascoveredingore, and its horns dripped

blood.To her, the animalwas an

apparition from the lowestmazesofhell.Shelookedaroundandsaw

with a sinking heart that theHenry was out of reach. Ofher derringer there was nosign.Sheliftedhereyestotheraging steer and knew shemust soon face the same fateasthebear.But to her relief, the steer

tossed its head in a defiant,

triumphal gesture and turnedandtrottedaway.Itsfighthadbeen with the bear, not thefrailhuman.Kate rose slowly to her

feet. She didn’t even glanceat the mangled body of theblack bear. That danger wasover.SheretrievedherHenryand then looked around forthe derringer. Suddenly, tohersurprise,shefoundherself

onherknees.Thefrontofherdress was scarlet with bloodand her head felt strangelylight....The ground came rushing

uptomeetherandKateknewnomore.

CHAPTERNINETEEN

Kate Kerrigan woke tocandlelight. She tried to rise,but a strong, female handpushedherback.“Youmust rest and gather

your strength,” the womansaid.Kate took stock of her

surroundings. The singlecandledid little tobanish thesmokygloomthatsurroundedher and she smelled an oddodor, something like theincense that burned inchurches.“WhereamI?”The woman drew closer.

“You are safe here. Close tothe Brazos and far fromharm.”Kate saw her features for

thefirsttimeandrealizedthatthe woman was stunningly

beautiful. The luxuriant hairthat cascaded over hershoulders was raven black,but her eyes, even indarkness, were a startlingblue, and her fullmouthwaswide and expressive. Shewore a buckskin dress,elaborately beaded, and anarrow headband with thesameblueandwhitepattern.“There was a bear,” Kate

said.“Itattackedme.”The woman nodded. “I

havetreatedyourwounds,butyou will always rememberthe bear. Evenwhen you arean old woman, you will stillhavethescars.”“You brought me here?”

Kateasked.“Yes. And your horse and

Henryrifle.”“My name is Kate

Kerrigan. I have a ranchhereabouts.”“Iknow.Itissaidyouarea

finewomanandabraveone.”

Kate smiled. “Who toldyouthat?”“Jason Hunt the rancher

andothers.”Thewoman laidher handonKate’s forehead.“There is no fever. That isgood.” Her smile was slight,almost sad. “My name isMary Fullerton. I’m adoctor.”“Arealdoctor?”Katesaid,

surprised.“A real one. According to

the Women’s Medical

CollegeofPennsylvaniaIcanputMDaftermyname.”“Thenwhy are you all the

way out here in cowcountry?”“Because like you, people

find it hard to believe that awoman can be a real doctor.Back east, I hung out myshingle in several cities, butno patients came. I headedwest and hung the sameshingle with similar results,sofiveyearsago,Icamehere

to practice medicine amongthe Indians. At first, theComanche were suspiciousandonly allowedme to treattheirwomenandchildren,butafter I patched up a fewwounded warriors, theyslowly came to accept me.”The woman shrugged. “TheComanchearegonenow,butoccasionally Apaches comeby.”Katewas apologetic and a

little embarrassed. “I didn’t

mean—”“There’s no harm done,”

Marysaid.“Yes,thereis.Isaidavery

foolish thing and Iwholeheartedlytakeitback...Doctor.”Mary smiled. “Practicing

medicine among the Indianshas its own rewards. AComanche womanmade thisdress and the Apache builtthishoganforme,thoughit’stwicethesizeoftheirown.”

Kate’s eyes had becomeaccustomedtothegloomandsmoke and she could makeoutasingleroomwithanimalskins on the walls, the floorcovered in cushions ofvariouskindsandblankets.Afire burned in the middle ofthefloor.“It’svery...cozy.”“The Apache build male

andfemalehogans.Themaleis round, the female has sixsides like this one.” Maryrose, a tall, elegant woman

who moved easily, andsteppedtothefire.Sheladledsteaming broth into a bowlandbroughtittoKate.“Nowyou must eat. I lacksilverware so a horn spoonwillhavetodo.”Kate pushed herself to a

sitting position. “When didyoubringmehere?”“Yesterday,afterdark.”“I must get home. My

familywillbeworried.”“It’s night,” Mary said.

“Restuntilfirstlightandthenleave.Youlostalotofbloodand you’ll feel weak for awhile.Nowopenyourmouth.Eat this beef brothwhile it’shot.”“I want to thank you for

bringingmehere,”Katesaid.“That’s what doctors are

for.”

In the dead of night, Dr.

Mary Fullerton’s voicewokeKate. “The only thing ofvalue I have inside is a sickpatient.Nowbeoffwithyoubeforeyouwakeher.”Kate was wide awake and

listening.“You got a five-hunnerd-

dollar hoss there, lady,” aman said. “What elsedoyouhaveinsidethathovel?”“Nothing that would

interestyou,”Maryanswered.“You interest me. That

mightbeenough.”Kate sat up, waited until

her head stopped swimming,then got unsteadily to herfeet. The poultice Mary hadputonherchestdroppedoff,and Kate saw parallel redslashes across the top of herbreasts. She had no time togrieve about that. The man,whoever he might be, wasspeakingagain.“I’maplain-speakingman,

blunt you might say, so I’ll

keep this simple. I want youandIwantyourhoss.Dowedo this sociable, like,ordo Iget rough? Of course, youmightwantmerough,huh?”The door to an Apache

dwelling always faces east.Kate stepped outside intomoonlight,theHenryreadyinherhands,knowingMaryandtheunknownmanwereontheoppositesideofthehogan.As she rounded the

structure,sheheardthedoctor

say, “Mister, touch me andI’llkillyou.”Katesteppedforward.“Let

me say that a different way.TouchherandI’llkillyou.”Themanwasbig,bearded,

anddressedinbitsandpiecesof an army uniform. Katepeggedhimasadeserteranda murderer, rapist, androbber. If she had to, she’dshoothim.Itlookedlikethatwouldbe

thecase.

“So what’s this? A littlesickladywithabigrifle.Youain’tgonnapullthetriggeronthat there Henry, now areyou?” He had mean littleeyes,buttheywerecraftyandshowed neither fear norapprehension, only whatcould have been lust and thecertainty of getting his ownwaybyforce.“See, I need a hoss and a

woman,andnowI’vegotoneofthefirstan’twooft’other.

My name is Bill Hobson, bythe way. So now we’reacquainted, ain’t you gonnainvite me inside for tea andcake?”The man who called

himself Hobson wore a Coltbutt forward in a flappedholsterforacavalrydraw.Hewould be slow, and both heandKateknewit.“You back away and go

elsewhere.” Kate pulled hertattered dress together.

“You’re not welcome here.”Sheswayedalittleasawaveofweaknesswashedoverher.“Go . . . go away.”The riflemuzzle dropped, the Henrysuddenlytooheavyforher.A born predator, Hobson

saw vulnerability and tookcommand.Three fast steps brought

himtoKate,andhewrenchedthe rifle from her grasp,tossed it aside, and followedup with a backhanded slap.

Theblowhadlittlebehindit,but it was enough to dropKatetoherknees.Hobsongrabbedherbythe

upperarm,pulledherroughlyto her feet, and pushed hertowardthehogan.“Getinsideandwaitformethere.”He turned his attention to

MaryFullertonjustasacloudscuddedacrossthefaceofthemoon. In the momentarygloom,hesawtheflareofthederringer even as the .41

bullet thudded into his chest.That stopped him in histracks, but the second shotMary fired from Kate’s gunmissed and the big manmoved toward her again, hisright hand fumblingwith theflapofhisholster.Despiteherweakness,Kate

saw the man’s killing intentand dived for the Henry,landingonherrightside.Painjolted through her body, butshe had the rifle. She fired,

shoving the rifle out in frontof her like a pistol. It was ashot she had to make. Sheknew she’d have no time toracktheleverforasecond.Her bullet hit Hobson

betweenthetopofhisearandthe rimofhiskepi.Themandidn’t cry out. He hit theground in a heap like apuppetthatjusthaditsstringscut. The rifle’s roar echoedthrough themoonlit darknessand flocks of alarmed birds

explodedoutof theoaksandmesquite.Mary kneeled beside

Hobson and after a fewmoments, she said, “He’sdead.”“Hedoesn’tneedawoman

now,doeshe?”Katesmirked.“You handled yourself

well,Kate.”“Andsodidyou.”“I’d never shot a gun

before.”“In this country, there’s a

first time for everything.”After a few moments, Katesaid, “Mary, I won’t behandled and I won’t beabused.”Thedoctorrosetoherfeet.

“I think you made thatperfectly clear. Now let megetyouinsidebeforeyougetreallysickonme.”“Comemorning,I’llloopa

rope on my horse and dragthis sorry piece of trash intothetrees.”

“You’re not a forgivingwoman,areyou,Kate?”“There are some things I

canforgivereadily.ThereareothersIcan’t.”“You’re a strong woman,

Kate. If Texas is ever toprosper again, it needswomenlikeyou.”Kate smiled. “And like

you, Mary Fullerton MD.That’s why you’re going tostopplayingIndianandcomewith me to the Kerrigan

Ranch.Hangoutyourshingleand I’ll guarantee thepatients.”

CHAPTERTWENTY

Kate Kerrigan sleptfitfully, her sleep haunted bydreams of dying men, butcome morning she feltstronger and the scars of thebear claws across her chestlooked less angry and werenotaspainful.Whensherose

from her blankets, coffeesimmered on the fire, butthere was no sign of MaryFullerton.Kate stepped outside and

heard a man’s voice. Herheart sank. Surely it was notanother rootless, violentrenegade seeking to stealwhat he was unable to buy.Shewasabouttogobackintothe hogan for her rifle, butthen she heardMary’s laughanddecidedthatallwaswell.

A woman does not laugh solightlyifsheisfrightened.ThemantalkingwithMary

was a peddler of some kind.He stood in front of a small,crammed wagon drawn by afierce-lookingmule.WhenhesawKate,hesweptoffhishatand made a low bow.Straightening, he said, “Myname isCount IvanBoleslavAndropov, late financialadviser to His ImperialMajesty Alexander the

Second, Czar of all theRussias.” He bowed again.“Atyourservice,dearlady.”“Howdoyoudo.Myname

isKateKerrigan.”“Ah yes, Karina in my

native tongue,” the countsaid. “In Russian or English,itisstillaprettyname.”Andropov was a small,

potbelliedmanwithdarkhairand intense brown eyes. Hewore a black frock coat,striped pants, and a colorful

waistcoat of Chinese silkadornedwithamassivewatchand chain. “I am sorry wemeet at such a sad time,” hesaid,nodding in thedirectionofthedeadman.“Alas,deathcomes like a thief in thenight.”“He was the thief who

cameinthenight,”Katesaiddryly. “That’s why I shothim.”CountAndropovseemedat

a loss for words, but Mary

filledinthesilencewhenshesaid, “Did you bring themedicinesIordered,Count?”“IndeedIdid,Doctor,”the

little man said, relieved tochange the subject.“Including the laudanum.It’sbecoming hard to come bysince so many woundedsoldiers returned from thewar.”Mary nodded in

understanding. “So manyamputeesinpain.”

Andropov agreed. “War isa terrible thing. Now I’ll getthe medicines and thepreciousbook.”Heglancedatthe dead man. “On secondthought, perhaps we shoulddo something with thedeceased first, even thoughmymostsingularillnessesareofthegreatestmoment.”“I’llputaropeonhimand

drag him away from thehogan,”Kate said. “My sonsmay soon be here searching

forme andwe can bury himthen.”It seemed that Count

Andropovwasagreatoneforbowing. After bending lowagain,hesaid,“I’lldoit,dearlady. As one who suffersfrom constant ill health, Ireadily recognize miseries inothers.Youareverypaleandyour fair bosom is quitebloodstained.”Deciding to have a little

fun with the Russian, who

couldbequitepompous,Katesaid,“Ifoughtabearacoupledaysago.He laidoneonmewithalefthook.”Andropovtookastepback

in amazement and bumpedinto his irritable mule. He’dobviously been in a similarsituation before because hestepped aside with alacrityand the mule’s long yellowteeth snapped like amousetrap on thin air.“Karina,youarearemarkable

woman. You wrestle a bearone day, kill an outlaw thenext. Should you ever thinkabout leaving this country,Mother Russia could use awoman like you.” Hispatriotism asserting itself, headded. “Of course, wealready have many fine,strong women in thehomeland.”“Why did you leave

Russia,Count?”Kateasked.“Ah, Karina, to hear my

tragic story would curdleyour young blood. Let mejust say, in short . . . anindiscretion with achambermaid . . . a missingroyaljewel...discovery...and a mad sled dash acrossthesnowysteppestosafetyinPrussia.” In a paroxysm ofgrief, the count threw up hisarms, dropped to the groundand wailed, “Mercy! MercyforpoorCountAndropovthepeddler! Let him return to

Moscow!” Then he launchedinto a torrent of Russianinterspersed with agonizedmoansandhowls.Dr. Fullerton turned to

Kate. “I believe no otherlanguage communicates themelancholy spirit likeRussian.Don’tyouthink?”“Willhebeallright?”Kate

asked,frowningherconcern.“Oh,yes.Thecountwillbe

justfineinalittlewhile.”And indeed that was the

case.The wailing stopped and

Andropovjumpedtohisfeet,yelled something in Russian,anddidafewkickingstepsofawildCossackdance.“Now,Imustremovethedeceased,”he said, breathing hard. “Ithinkyou ladiesshouldretiretothedachawhilethedeedisdone.Drinkcoffee.Itrestoresthe troubled soul.” Heshrugged.“Orvodka.”

Thirtyminuteslater,Count

Andropov returned to thehogan.Hedidn’tmentionthedead man. He passed MaryFullerton a package ofmedicines wrapped in brownpaper tied with string. “Andnowwewillconsultthebook,Dr.Fullerton.”“Only five ailments,

Count,”Marysaid.“I will honor our

agreement,dearlady.Fiveof

my afflictions in return forthemedicines.Orwasitsix?”“Itwasfive.”“Verywell. Ihavemarked

the relevant pages in”—hespoke in a tone of deepreverence—“thebook.”The front cover of the

massively thick tome underthe count’s arm read 1,000Maladies That PlagueMankind,writtenbysomeonewho called himself Dr.Ebenezer Snoad, late of

MannheimUniversity.Kate decided that the

thousandmiseriesinthebookmust be very importantindeed to merit such aprodigious volume. Shesuffered through two of thecount’s diseases and his listof symptoms, but when hegot to Adenosinemonophosphate deaminasedeficiency andcomplainedofbreathlessness and a lack ofenergy,shethrewinthetowel

and stepped outside . . . justin time to see Trace andFrankrideoutofthetreesandwavetoher.

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

“His name was Hobson,andhewasofthesamebreedas Hack Rivette,” Kate said.“He was just a wild animalwho wanted nothing betterthantorapeandpillage.”“He ran into the wrong

ladies.”Cobbacknowledged.Kate nodded. “He was

notified, but he didn’t heedthewarning.”“He underestimated you,

Kate,”Marysaid.Kate smiled. “And you

mostofall.”“Well,weburiedhimdeep

where the sun don’t shine.”Cobb stared hard at Kate asthough gauging how muchmore stress she could take.“The Apaches are out. We

need togetback to theranchinahurry.”Trace answered the

questiononhismother’sface.“Wemet a patrol of Yankeesoldiers just north of herewho toldus theApacheshadbeen raiding into Chihuahuaand were headed for Texas.They already attacked anisolated homestead down onthe Nueces and the word isthat theRangers buriedwhatwas left of eight people, five

ofthemchildren.”Cobb said, “Of course,

they probably won’t comethisway.”Kate smiled. “Thank you

for trying to spare me,Frank.” She turned to Mary.“Youbettercomewithus.”“I’ve had no trouble with

Apachesinthepast.”Cobb said, “The Apache

buck is the most notionalcreature on God’s greenearth. He can be your friend

on Saturday and try to cutyour throat on Sunday. Inother words, Dr. Fullerton,it’samistaketoputyourfaithinanApache’sgoodnature.”“Come with us, Mary,”

Kate said. “I’ll feel a lotbetterifyoudo.Andyoutoo,Count.”“Damned Cossacks,”

Andropovsaid.“Itseemsthateverycountryhas them.Yes,dearlady,I’lljoinyou.Aswesay in Russia, there’s safety

innumbers.”Cobb’s gazemoved to the

wagon and its clanking,clattering load of pots andpans, cheap crockery andsamples of just about everyitem a prairie wife mightneed, from needles tonightdresses. “The wagonwillslowus,Andropov.”“Then I will bring up the

rearguard,”thecountsaid.“IhaveafineBerdanarmyriflethat served me well on the

RussiansteppesanditwilldothesameagainstApaches.”Small, dark and portly

though the count was, Cobbpegged him for a fightingman and he acknowledgedthat fact by a nod. “Keep agood watch, Count. If theApaches come at us, they’llcomea-running.”“You can depend on me,

Mr. Cobb,” the little mansaid.“Iaimtodojustthat.”

Despite her wounds, Katerefused to ride in thewagon.SheandFrank took thepointand Trace rode drag. Dr.Mary Fullerton rode withCount Andropov in thewagon, which pleased theRussiangreatly.Notonlywasthewomanquitebeautiful,hehadplentyof time to reeloffhis symptomsand then listenintently to her suggested

treatments, especiallysurgery, for which he had amorbidfascination.Ridingacrossthegrassand

mesquite country east of theBrazos meant that theApaches had little chance tosurprise them . . .butabandof three belligerent teenagersdecidedtocausetrouble.One of the youngwarriors

had a brass telescope and heused it to scan the party ofwhites.Hewantedthehorses,

guns,thegoodsinthewagon,and the two women. Thethree riflemen gave himpause. An Apache wouldfight only when the oddswere in his favor, and evensdidn’tsignifyasfavorable.TheApachestalkedamong

themselves for a while andthen took a few ineffectivepotswiththeirrifles.Theonewith the glass got off hispony, bent over,waggledhisbarebutt,andmountedagain.

Yippinginderision, thethreerodeawayandweresoonlostfromsight.Kate and Cobb rode back

tothewagon.Andropov said, “That was

a Cossack trick. Thosebarbariansshowcontemptfortheir enemies by baring theirrears.”“I guess that Apache

studiedinRussia,huh?”Katesaid,tongueincheek.“Do you think so?”

Andropovfrowned.“No,Count,Idon’t.”“Thenyoumadeajoke?”Kate nodded. “Yes,

somethinglikethat.”The Russian smiled. “It

wasagoodjoke.”Cobb swung his horse

awayfromthewagon.“Let’sgo.ThoseApachekidsmightcome back with their bigbrothers.”Another mile across the

range, the three Apaches

returned.Theydismountedona shallow ridge and resumedtheir long-range sniping.CobbandTracereturnedfire,butatadistanceofahundredyards, their shooting waswildlyinaccurate.“I think they’re trying to

pin us down here while theywaitfortherestoftheraidingpartytoshowup,”Cobbsaid.“Wemayhavetomakearunforit.”Kate frowned. “Maybe

that’s what they want. If werun,we’ll be spread out, andtheycanpickusoff.”“Count, if you have any

ideas, this would be a goodtime to air them.” A bulletspit the air a scant yard overCobb’shead.“Take away their horses

and they’re finished. That’showitworkswithCossacks.”Revealing surprising alacrityforaplumpman,theRussianjumped from the wagon and

shouldered the .42 caliberBerdan. He took careful aimandfired.Ontherise,apaintponydroppedandlaykickingon theground.Andropov fedanother round into theBerdan’s chamber, workedthe bolt, and fired again. Asecondhorsefell.A moment later, the

Apache youths were gone,vanishedlikepuffsofsmoke.All thatwas lefton the ridgeweretwodeadwarponies.

Trace Kerrigan whistledbetween his teeth. “Thatwasgoodshooting.”The count accepted the

complimentwithalittlebow.“When I was a young mannot much older than you, Iwon a gold medal formarksmanshipattheImperialMilitary Academy inRostov.”“Youcouldhavekilledthe

Apaches just as easily as thehorses,”Cobbsaid.

“Yes I could, but I don’tmake war on boys, evenCossack boys,” Andropovsaid.“Now,shallweproceed,this time in an orderlyfashion?”Cobb nodded. “That sets

fine with me, Count. I don’tmakewaronboys,either.”

BOOKTWO

KateRidestheTerrorRange

CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO

Two years after her brushwith the black bear, KateKerrigan wrote a letter toCornelius Hagan, the manwho helped her escape a lifeof poverty in Nashville andbroughtherandherfamilyto

Texas. He had loaned Katemoney to start the ranch, afavor she never forgot.Withtheletter,sheenclosedabankdraft.

My DearCornelius,I hope this

short missivefinds you andyourswelland

prosperous.You will be

happy to knowthat I havemade a fullrecovery fromthe bearattack, thoughmyupperchestis somewhatscarred. Irather fancythat my poorbody will

suffer moreand perhapsdeeper scarsere this wildlandofmineistamed.Thanks to

two years ofmild fall andwinterweather, myherd increasedapace withplenty of

calves on theground and Iintroduced asmall numberofHerefords,agift from Mr.CharlesGoodnight,that, despiteall my doubts,seem to bethriving.Trace, who isgrowing intoa

fine youngman, oncemoreramrodded—La! What aTexan I ambecoming—myherds up theChisholmTrailtoKansas,andmyneighboringrancher JasonHunt obtained

top dollar formy cattle.Thus, happily,I am able topay you someofwhat I owe,though myentire debt toyou can neverbepaidinfull,as I am wellaware.The

Apaches have

left us alone,no doubtbecause thearmy isleadingthemamerry chase,and FrankCobb myforeman givesrustlers andother thievesshort shriftwith his gunandarope,the

only languagethey seem tounderstand.Those whowould stealfrom theKerriganRanch mustknow I willfight toothandnail for thisblessed land,no matter thecost.

Our cabinhas beengreatlyexpanded andit now beginsto look like areal home. Ivyand Shannoneach havetheir ownrooms, butQuinn, grownas tall as ayoung oak,

bunks withTrace, Frank,and the restofmy seasonalhands. Aregular littlesettlement isgrowing uparound theranchhouse.Dr. Mary

Fullerton builta home andsurgery and

sick peoplecome frommiles aroundto be treatedby her. She isindeed a finedoctor. MyMexicancouple, MarcoSalas and hiswife Jazmin,set up theirownblacksmith’s

forge and aredoing well.The Russianémigré CountIvan BoleslavAndropov Itold you aboutalsodecidedtosettlehereandhasopenedhisown generalstore, thoughhelongstooneday return to

his nativeland. Franksaysthatifanymore peoplearrive, I’llhavetochangethenameofmyranch toKerrigantown!Notsuchabadidea.On a sad

note, I justheard last

weekthatSteve Keller,the brushpopper whohelped me somuch when Ifirst arrived,waskilledinasaloon fightsomewherewest of here. Ihave no moredetails.Once again,

dearCornelius,thank you forall your helpand if Godwills it, maywemeet againsoon.

Withallmy

bestwishes,Kate

Three days after Katewrote that letter, Jason HuntandhissegundoKyleWrightbroughtmoredetailsofSteveKeller’sdeath.

Therewas no sponge cakethat day, but Jazmin’s cherrypie was deemed to be anexcellentsubstitute.After he’d eaten and Kate

poured his third cup of tea,HuntsaidthatKellerwasshotbyamannamedHickamatasalooninthePanhandle,closetotheNewMexicoborder.Whenheheard this,Frank

sat up and took notice.“Would that be JackHickamout of Yuma County in the

ArizonaTerritory?”“Could be,” Hunt said.

“Youknowhim?”“Ifit’sJackHickam,yeah,

Iknowhim.He’sbadnews.”“Heagun?”Wrightasked.“Draw fighter. He’s fast,

very fast, and he’s a scalphunter. Killed eighteen men,orsoIheard.”“Mr. Hunt, why did this

Hickam person choose tomurderSteve?”Kateasked.“Idon’tknowhowitcome

up, Mrs. Kerrigan,” therancher said. “But Iwas toldthat Hickam was holding aherd of ten thousand cattlefiftymileswestof thePecos.Maybe thathadsomething todowithit.”Cobb shook his head. “I

can’t see JackHickam in thecattle business. That soundswaytoomuchlikehardwork.Hemustbesellinghisguntowhoever owns the herd. Mr.Hunt. Ten thousand head

needalotofgraze.I’dhatetothink they’re headed thisway.”“I don’t know where

they’re headed, but I plan tosendaridertofindout,”Huntsaid.“All the land west of the

Pecos is already taken,”Wright said. “My guess isthose cattle are headed forOldMexico.”“We have a claim on the

land, but it is open range.”

Kate said. “That’s enough tomakemeuneasy.”“Whatyousayistrue,Mrs.

Kerrigan,” Hunt said. “I aimto find out the right of thething. I’ll send a rider outtoday.”“Lowery is a good man,

boss,” Wright pointed out.“He’s a youngster, but he’ssmart and fast with the ironwhenheneedstobe.”Hunt nodded. “Then that’s

who we’ll send.” He rose to

hisfeet.“Don’tworry.I’llgetto the bottom of this, Mrs.Kerrigan.”“I’ll say one more thing.

Jack Hickam never made anhonest dollar in his life andonlysomebodyascrookedashe is would hire him. Don’task me how, but I got afeeling big trouble is comingdown.” Cobb pointed west.“Justoverthehorizon.”“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,

and all the saints in Heaven

protectus.”Kateshivered.“Ihave that feelingmyself, likea goose just flew over mygrave.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE

At twenty-two, Lowerywas a top hand who’d beenup the trail three times, thefirst riding drag. Everybodyagreedhehadsand.Althoughthe Chisholm took themeasure of a man and he’d

stood the test, he’d neverfired a gun in anger and hadnever shot at anything moredangerous than cactus padsandemptybeancans.Tosumitup,hewasnota

matchforJackHickaminanyway,shape,orform.Nobody knew that better

thanLoweryhimself.Hewasyoungwith steady

hands and a fire in his belly,andhefearednoman.Hewasoff on the scout to set Mrs.

Kate Kerrigan’s mind at restand that pleased him greatly.He’d seen her only from adistance,butithadbeencloseenoughtorealizethatshewasa fine-lookingwomanwith amane of red hair any Irishprincess would envy. YoungLowery figured if he earnedjust one smile frombeautifulKate Kerrigan it would bepaymentenough.Lowery rode across the

plateaucountryoftheStaked

Plains, mile after mile ofrolling grassland cut throughby deep canyons that somecalled upside-downmountains, since theysuddenly plunged steeplyfrom the flat. The summergrass was sown withwildflowers, mostlyhoneysuckle and fragrantsumac, and here and there insplendid isolation stoodplains cottonwood, bur oak,andredcedar.

As he rode west, a fewmiles south of the NewMexicoborder,Lowerydrewreinandhisgazereachedoutacross the distance. Hissturdypaintponywasameanbucker,biter,andsnorterthatthe other hands had dubbedRat’sAss.He liked the littlehorseandshortenedthenameto justRat, figuring thatwasplentyenoughtodescribehissteed’spersonality.“Rat, what do we have

here? It looks like asettlementwhere theremightbe grub for me and oats feryou.”The pony hung its ugly

hammerheadandlostitselfinevilthoughts.“Well, we’ll go take a

look.” Lowery was no trailcook and for the last threedays had eaten nothing butstale soda bread and beefjerky. Like all cowboys, hewouldn’t pass up the chance

of a hot meal, not knowingwhenhe’dgetanother.Itwasasettlementofsorts,

served by awagon track.Herodepastageneralstorewithsleeping rooms on the flooraboveandfiftyyardsawayanadobe cantina with a bluecoyotepaintedon thewall totheleftofthedooralongwiththe words El Coyote Azul.The charred ruins of a stage

station lay at a distance, arelic of some forgottenComancheraid,andafathogwallowedinthemudofwhathadoncebeenthecorral.Loweryloopedthereinsto

the hitching rail outside thecantina. His paint lookedstuntedbeside thepairofbigAmerican studs that alreadystoodthere.Hewalkedtothedoor, a massive portal ofiron-studded oak scarred byarrow and bullet holes, and

stepped inside a largepleasant room, the wallswhitewashed and hung withNavajoblankets.Asmallbarstood to his right and behindthat a curtain partitioned offwhatLoweryguessedwasthekitchenandsleepingquarters.Tablesandchairscoveredtherest of the floor space. Twomen sat at one of the tablessharing a bottle of mescal.Both were tall, angular,dressed in gambler’s

broadclothfinery,andcarrieda pair of holstered Colts incrossed cartridge belts suchas Lowery had never seenbefore.Hiseyesclashedwiththeirs, cold as hisstepmother’sbreath.“What can I do for you,

young feller?” A short,bearded man wearing astained white apron steppedfrom behind the curtain andushered Lowery to a table.Whenhewasseated,theman

said,“Sharpset,areye?”“I could use some grub.”

Lowerysmiled.“I’mmissingmylastsixmeals.”One of the gamblers

snickered,anasty,unfriendly,belligerentsound.Lowerydidn’tlookathim.

He wasn’t scared, but heknewthat twomenwithfourColts was probably a tadmorethanhecouldhandle.“I got fried beef and

tortillas,” the cantina owner

said. “You like beef friedwithpeppers?”“Irecollectatrailcookfed

me that one time,” Lowerysaid.“And?”“I liked it just fine, once I

gotoverthefirstbite.”“Drink?”“Just coffee. I’m partial to

sugar and milk in it, if yougotthem.”“Honeyandgoat.”Lowerynodded.“Allright.

Thatsoundsgood.”“Comin’ right up.” The

proprietordisappearedbehindthecurtain.One of the gamblers said,

“Where you headed,cowboy?”Lowerywaspreparedtobe

sociable. “Headed west ofhere, looking for a herd.FigureI’dsignon.”“What herd?” the man

asked.“Idon’tknowwhoownsit.

I only know it’s supposed tobe ten thousand head. Youneed a lot of punchers todrivethatmanycattle.”“Youheretosignonorare

you hunting trouble?” theother gambler askedpointedly.Heopenedhiscoatand showed the lawman’sshieldpinned tohisvest.Hiscompaniondidlikewise.“I don’t plan to cause any

trouble,”Lowerysaid.“Itoldyou, I aim to sign on.” He

triedasmileagain.“Ireckonthe herd is headed for OldMexico. Am I right aboutthat?”“Andwhatifitisn’t?”“No matter. I’m just

curious is all,” Lowery said.“Areyoufellerslawmen?”“You could say that.” The

manhadstrangeeyes,almostyellowincolor.“We’rerangedetectives.”“Never met one of them

before.”

“Well, you’ve met themnow,” Yellow Eyes said.“Whatwasthelastoutfityouworkedfor?”“TheHbarHonthePecos

southeast of here. Mr. JasonHunt’sspread.”“And he sent you to find

out where the big herd isheaded,huh?”“No.Igotpaidoffwiththe

other seasonal hands.”Lowery looked around him.“I could sure use that grub I

ordered. What’s taking himsolong?”Lowery didn’t recognize

the danger, even when bothmen rose to their feet andstepped toward him. “Youboysleaving?”“No,” Yellow Eyes said.

“Youare.”The man was tall and big

as a blacksmith in the chestandarms.Thepowerful righthook he slammed into theside of Lowery’s face

knocked the young puncheroutofhis chair and senthimsprawling onto the floor.Hisheadringing,Lowerytriedtoget up and collided withanother roundhouseright thatsmashedintohisfaceandputhimdownagain.Thenthebootswentin.Loweryfeltkickafterkick

thud into his ribs and head.He was aware of pain, razorsharp and unrelenting, thetaste of green bile in his

mouth, and the salty tang ofblood. Then a man’s voice,muffled, as though he talkedunderwater.“Leave that cowboy be.

You’llkillhim.”Lowery was hauled

roughly to his feet andslammed into a chair. “Putthe honey and milk into thecoffee,” a man said. A fewmoments later, the rim of acup rammed into his mouthand scalding hot coffee was

pouredintohismouthandrandown his chin. The youngman choked and gagged andthe cupwas taken away.Buthis torment wasn’t over.Greasy beef wrapped in atortilla was rammed into hismouth and a strong handforced it deeper intoLowery’s throat, the palmtwisting back and forth topush the food deeper. For amoment, he thought he’dchoke to death, but then

mercifully it was over. Hewas left alone to retchuncontrollablyandthenthrowupalloverhimself.Yellow Eyes dragged the

youngpunchertohisfeetandslammed him against thewall. “Now that you’ve hadyourgrub,listenup,boy.Yougoback toyourbossand tellhimthebigherdiscomingtothe Brazos. You tell him togetofftherangeorhe’llthinkhefellasleepandwokeupin

hell.”Theman pounded Lowery

against the wall. “Did youhear that, boy?” The youngcowboy said nothing, andYellowEyesyelled,“Didyouhearthat?”Lowery’s answer was to

throw an enraged punch, butitwasafeebleeffort.Themanslappedaway the

puncher’s fist, then delivereda vicious backhand toLowery’s bloody, broken

mouth.“Speaktome,boy,orby God I’ll beat you todeath.”“I . . . heard . . . you.”

Lowery was barely holdingontoconsciousness.“Another thing, boy. Tell

your boss that any manstandinginthewayofthebigherdwillbeshot.Noexcuses,noapologies.He’llbegunnedonsight.Areyoulistening?”Lowery knew he was hurt

bad and couldn’t take more

punishment. “I’m listening,”hewhispered.“Iheardyou.”YellowEyesand theother

man draggedLowery outsideandthrewhimontohishorse.Without another word, theypointedRatsouthandslappedthe pony into an ungainlytrot.Lowery,facedownoverthe

horse’s neck, slipped in andoutofconsciousness.Movingbetween darkness and pain,he didn’t think hewas going

tomakeit.

CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR

“He made it, Mrs.Kerrigan,” Jason Hunt said.“Beaten to the threshold ofdeath’s door, but he gotthrough.Damnitall,ifyou’llforgivemylanguage,ma’am,butLoweryhassand.”

“Where is the young mannow, Mr. Hunt?” KateKerriganaskedasshepouredmorecoffeeintotherancher’scup.“Lying in my own bed

beingattendedtobytheranchcook. Lowery’s almightysick, ma’am, coughing upblood and hurtin’ every timehemoves.”“Has he eaten or drunk

anything?” Dr. Fullertonasked.

“Mycookgotalittlewaterdown him and urged him tomakeatrialofsomesaltporkand beans. But he refused toeat.”“And no wonder,” Mary

glanced out the cabinwindow. “The surrey is forme,Mr.Hunt?”“I surely hate to impose,

ma’am,ImeanDoctor.”“Attendingtothesickisno

imposition. It’s my job. I’llleaverightaway.”

“Youngfellerby thenameof Henry Brown is at thereins,Doc,”Huntsaid.“He’sagoodmanandbeingafearddoesn’t enter into histhinking. Henry will see yousafetotheHbarH.”“Then I’mmost reassured,

Mr.Hunt,”Marysaid.“Doc, one more thing,”

Hunt said, his craggy facelined with worry. “I don’tcarewhatitcostsorhowlongit takes, but get that boy

well.”“I’lldomyverybest.”Dr.

Fullerton laid her slenderhandontherancher’sgnarledpaw. “He sounds like a fineyoungman.”Kate andHuntwatched as

she climbed into the surreyandleftinacloudofdust.“Mrs. Kerrigan, an attack

on one of my hands is anattack on theH barH, and Iwill not let it stand. I’ll becalling on young Trace and

FrankCobb to ridewith us.”Hunt saw the confusion inKate’s face. “Thebigherd isheaded this way and we’vebeen ordered to get off theland. Lowery told me thatmuch . . . maybe with hisdyingbreath.”“It’s open range,” Kate

said.“Wehaveeveryrighttograzeourcattlehere.”“Indeedwedo,ma’am,but

the owner of the herd wantshis cowson it, not ours.The

onlywaywe can claimopenrange is to fence it, and wedon’thavetimeforthat.”“Then what are we to do,

Mr.Hunt?”Kateasked.“I plan to ride against the

owner, whoever he is, andforce him to turn his herdaround. There’s plenty ofgrassinOldMexico.”“And if he doesn’t turn

around?”“Then we’ll have a range

waronourhands,”Huntsaid.

“I won’t be pushed offground I fought for againstComanches, rustlers, Yankeeraiders, and the land itself.West Texas did its best tobreak me, Mrs. Kerrigan.Sure,itmademeoldandgraybefore my time, but I neverraised the white flag and byGod, Iwon’t do it now.TheH bar H is mine and I’llsurrenderittonoman.”“Nor will I, Mr. Hunt,”

Kate said strongly. “I’ll fight

to the death for what ismine.”“Mrs. Kerrigan, you got

young’unstothinkabout,twolittlegirlstoraise.Ifitcomes,you leave the fighting to themenfolk.”“That I will not do,” Kate

said,herprettychinstubborn.“I can rideand shoot aswellasanymanandIwillnotstayhome when mine go off towar. I am not a wiltingmagnolia of a Southern belle

weeping in the big housewhilehermenfolkrideaway.The land is mine and I willdefendittomylastbreath.”Huntsmiled.“Ibelieveyou

will. Let’s hope it will notcometothat.Theherdmightyetturnsouth.”“But you don’t believe it

will,”Katepointedout.Hunt’s big shoulders

sagged as he glanced out thewindow, the waningafternoon light gray on his

face.Withoutturninghesaid,“Last night in a dream, Iwalked across a prairie thatwas all afire. But when Ilookedattheflames,itwasn’tfireatall.Eachbladeofgrasswasscarletwithblood.Asfarastheeyecouldseetherewasbloodshiningonthegrass...like a sea of rubies.” Heturned and started at Katewith haunted eyes. “It was aterribledream.”Fromthetimebeforetime,

the Irish have set store bydreams.Katereachedintothepocket of her day dress andclutched her rosary in herhand.“MayGodinhismercyprotectusall.”Hunt bowed his head.

“Amen.”Dusk shadowed the land

and the sky looked like asheet of tarnished copper asDr. Mary Fullerton returned

to the Kerrigan cabin. Herdriver refused to wait forcoffee, citing chores thatneededtobedone,andMarylingered outside the door forseveral minutes after he left.Finally she took a deepbreath, steeling herself forwas to come, and steppedinside. She was greeted withsmilesandthegoodsmellsofcoffee, fresh-baked bread,and beef stew simmering inthepot.

Kate laid down the bookshe was reading. Frank andQuinn looked up from theircheckerboard and Trace rananoilyclothupanddownthebarrelofhisHenry.Thegirlsmadetoomuchnoisein theirbedroom, and CountAndropovglaredattheirdoorindisapprovingsilence.Kate rose to her feet and

smiled.“Howisyourpatient,Mary?”Her lovely face like stone,

thedoctorsaid,“Lowerydiedtwohoursago.”Katetalkedintothesilence

that fell on the room. “Oh,Mary,I’msosorry.”“His internal injuries were

tooextensive.Icouldn’tsavehim. I couldn’t do anythingfor him but ease his pain.”Mary let her medical bagdrop to the floor. “Maybe abetter doctor, a male doctor,could have saved the youngman.Icouldnot.”

CountAndropovjumpedtohis feet. “Manya”—he usedthe Russian form of Mary—“Iwillnotallowyoutosaythat. You are a fine doctor,but when a man is torn upinside, nothing can be doneforhim.IrememberinRussiaa young prince of the bloodwasgoredbyawildoxintheKhimki Forest outside ofMoscow. The czar orderedthe best physicians in theempire to tend him, but his

internal injuries were toogreat and he soon died. Thedoctors could not do theimpossible and neither canyou, Manya.” Andropovsmiled slightly. “And theywereallmen.”Moses was perched on a

stool opposite Kate, an openBible in his lap. He couldneitherreadnorwrite,buttheBook spoke to him in alanguage only he couldunderstand.Hegottohisfeet,

carefully laid the open Bibleon the stool, and stepped toMary. “Doctor, you don’tblameyourself for thatboy’sdeath, no. The ones whokicked himuntil his ribs andchestcavedinaretoblame.”“Mose is right, Mary.”

Kate rose and thenmotionedto her chair. “Sit here by thefire and I’llmakeyou a nicecupoftea.”Mary managed a smile.

“‘Thereisnotroublesogreat

orgravethatcannotbemuchdiminished by a nice cup oftea.’Ireadthatsomewhere.”“And truer words were

neverspoken,”Katesaid.Maryseemedgladtositby

the fire, a cup of tea in herhand. But for the rest of theevening, she gazed into theflamesandsaidnothing.Kate wanted to say a

hundred things that mightconsole the woman, but shecouldnotcomeupwitheven

one.

CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE

KyleWright laiddownhissteamingcoffeecupandsaid,“Howdoweplaythis,boss?”The six hands gathered in

Colonel Jason Hunt’s parlorlooked at the old rancher,waiting for his answer. The

faces of the young puncherswere grim.Lowery had beenawell-likedman.“We ride out to that hell

anddamnationherdandItelltheownerIwanthimtohandover the two men whomurdered Lowery. Then I’llhang them.” The stern oldrancherlitacigar.“Twomendressed like gamblers, totinglawman’s badges shouldn’tbehardtofind.Werideoutatfirstlight.”Helookedaround

at the punchers who stoodholding up the walls.“Sanchez,youandBrownarethe fastestwith the iron. If itcomes to a fight, make sureyougetyourworkin.”“Ain’t nobody gonna get

the drop on me, boss,”Esteban Sanchez said. “AndBrown won’t let it happen,either.”“Damn right,” Henry

Brownsaid.KyleWrightlookedaround

the room. “Any man whowants to step away from thiscan, and I won’t blame him.You boys ain’t making gunwages.”Afteramoment’ssilence,a

tall, lanky puncher spoke forthe rest of them. “I reckonwe’llstick.”“I expected nothing less.”

Huntrosetohisfeetinabluecloudof cigar smoke. “Get agoodnight’ssleep,allofyou.An hour before dawn, we’ll

meet in the cookhouse forbreakfast.”Afterthehandsleft,Wright

said, “What do you expect,boss?”“I expect a range war,”

Hunt said. “That’s what Iexpect.”“Nothing good ever came

outofoneofthem.”“Dead men, widows,

grieving mothers, andburned-out ranch houses.”Hunt looked at his segundo

with weary eyes. “Nothinggoodatall.”A puncher named Ben

Clark rode into camp at agallop because a fast-ridingman made a difficult target.Heswungout the saddleandhit the ground before hishorsehadhalted.“Well?” Jason Hunt said,

hisfaceshowinghisworry.“The herd is three miles

thataway,” Clark said,pointing west with a bladedhand.“It’sabigherd,boss,atleast ten thousand head, butthem cattle are in bad shape,like they’d been held on thecaprock.There’swaterupontheescarpmentbutlittlegrazeforaherdthatsize.”Raindrizzledandspat into

the fire under the coffeepot.Theskywasirongrayandtheair unseasonably cool thatdeepintosummer.

“Ireckontheherdcameupfromthesouth,”Wrightsaid.“No cause for them to keeptheircattleon thecaprock. Ifthecowsdon’tlookgood,it’sforsomeotherreason.”Hunt frowned. “Ben, were

anyofthosecowsdownwhenyousawthem?”“Yeah,boss,quiteafew.”“They should’ve been

grazing this early in themorning,”Huntsaid.Wright stared hard at the

rancher. “Boss, you gotsomething sticking in yourcraw?”“Maybe,” Hunt said.

“Throwthecoffeeonthefireand get the boys mounted,Kyle. We got things to do,peopletoannoy.”The drizzle turned to rain

and the clouds lowered. Agustingwindrippledthelonggrass as Jason Hunt and his

punchers caught their firstglimpseofthebigherd.Wright’s experienced eye

swept the landscapeaheadofhim. “Ten thousand all right,all of them longhorns.” Hestudied the cattle. “Thosecows are mighty thin, andthey don’t seem inclined tomovemuch.”“Maybe they’ve been

driven far,”Hunt said. “Nowthat they’re on good grass,whoeverownsthemprobably

plans tohold themhereuntiltheyputonbeef.”“Speak of the devil,”

Wright said. “This might behimcoming.”Jason Hunt was not a

trustingman. He ordered hishands spread out on eitherside of him, the fastest guns—Wright, Carlos Sanchez,and Henry Brown—in thecenter.A dozen horsemen came

on at a canter, led by a big,

yellow-haired man on a finegrayhorse.As they drew closer,

Wrightsizedthemup.“Thoseboysain’tpunchers.”Hunt nodded. “Looks that

way, don’t it.” He scannedthe riders but none matchedthe description of the twowho had kicked Lowery todeath.Themanon thegraydrew

rein,savagely jerking thebit.Ashismenshookthemselves

into a skirmish line, he said,“You boys are trespassingand thatmeansyousuddenlygotachoice.Rideawayorbecarriedaway.”“Mister, this is open range

andwe don’t intend to leaveuntil we get what we camefor,”Huntsaid.The big, blond man’s

handsome face showedsurprise,asthoughhewasnotused to defiance or toWestern men who didn’t

scare worth a damn. Hebacked down, but only alittle. Kyle Wright’s steadystare unsettled him. Herecognized that Wright wasthe gun of the outfit andwouldbesudden.“My name is Rube St.

James and my sisterSavannahhasclaimedall theland from here to a hundredmiles east of the Pecos andsouthtotheRioGrande,”thebig handsome man said, but

his small, sensuous mouthhinted at cruelty and thickeyebrowsshadowedhisdeep-set blue eyes as though theykeptterriblesecrets.“That’s a fair piece of

rangeyoursisterisclaiming,”Wrightsaid.“Pitythelandisalreadytaken.”“That is no concern of

mine,”St.Jamessaid.“We’redriving the herd west andwe’ll trample underfootanyone who stands in our

way.”Hesmiled,showingthewhite incisors of a predator.“That’sapolitewayofsayingthatanymanwhotriestostopuswilldie.”Wright’s smile was less

threatening, but just aseffective. “We’ll stop you,mister. Depend on it. And Ihave a guarantee for you. Ifyou open the ball right hereandnow,you’llbethefirsttodie.”If St. James was

intimidated, he didn’t let itshow. “This is not the timenor the place. A reckoningwillcomesoon,butnotnow.”“Then I’ll look forward to

us meeting again,” Wrightsaid.“Kyle, let it go. I have

pressingbusinesshere.”Huntstared at St. James, his eyeslikechipsofflint.“Twomeninyouremploymurderedoneof my hands. I want you tohand them over. It is my

intentiontohangthem.”“I have no suchmen,” St.

James said. “My riders don’tbrawlwithcowboys.”“ThemenIwantdresslike

gamblers and wear alawman’sbadge.”Huntsawafew of the men in the lineglanceateachother.St. James blinked as

though he feared his eyeswouldbetrayhim.“Ihavenosuchmen.”Hewavedahand.“These are my riders, my

friends,mycompadres.”“Andnotapuncheramong

them,”Wrightsaid.“Howdoyou plan to drive tenthousand head east with adozen hired guns who’venever nursed a cow in theirlives?”“If a twenty-a-month

punchercanfigureitout,thenthese men will do it evenbetter,”St.Jamessaid.“Iwillnotargue thepointwithyou.Nowclearoutofmyrange.”

KyleWright,amanwithanotoriously short fuse, wasprimed for a fight. “Supposeyoutryandmakeus.”“Kyle, no!” Jason Hunt

said. “Not today. There willbeotherdays.”Without another word the

rancher swung his horsearound and the crestfallen HbarHridersfollowed.Laughter and derisive

cheers rang out behind themandWright’sfaceburned.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX

The devil was in KyleWright. As the day shadedinto night and the dejected,head-bowedmenoftheHbarHheadedforhome,itwasaneasymatter to turn his horsearoundandlosehimselfinthegloom.

Wright’s big Americanstud walked with his headhigh and his ears prickedforward. He was unused tonightsoundssincehe’dneverbeen used as a cowpony, buthe stepped outwell and keptto the trail, andWright rodehimonalooserein.Heat lightning flashed in

the sky to the west andWright was pleased. Theshimmering sky could makethe herd uneasy and more

inclinedtorun.Hekepttotheshallow hollows between thehills, using every inch ofcover he could find. Hissuccessdependedonsurprise,and he didn’t want somesharp-eyed night herder tospot his silhouette in thedarknessandraisethealarm.He patted the stud’s neck

and smiled. Rube St. Jameswas big on threats andbluster, but how would hehandlehisfirsttasteofwarin

a land of hard men livingroughlives?Ten minutes later, Wright

came upon the herd, a blacksea of cattle that stretchedinto darkness. Lightningflashes lit the sky and hereand there bobbing hornsglowed with the eerie greenincandescence of St. Elmo’sfire.Wright slid his rifle outof the boot and carried itupright, the butt on his rightthigh. He swung away from

the herd, not wishing tostampede it . . . at least notyet.In thedistance, a campfire

twinkledlikeasentinelstarina dark sky. He kneed hishorseforward,theonlysoundthe lowing of the stock, thecreak of saddle leather, andthe soft footfalls of hismount.Theairsmelledoftenthousand cattle, an odor thatoverpowered all else. As herodeclosetoalonewildoak,

anirritatedowldemandedhisidentity. “Just me, that’swhooo,” he whispered, androdeon.Anxiety twisting inhisgut

likeaknifeblade,hekept totheshadowsasherodeclosertothecamp.Aholdoverfromhis Comanche-fighting days,nothing on his horse orperson was shiny. He’dallowedeventhebrassbuckleofhiscartridgebelttotarnishso that it didn’t gleam in

moonlightorthebrightTexassun.As Wright rode along the

outer fringe of the herd, anoddrealizationstruckhim...noonewasridingnightherd.A herd that size needed fouror five nighthawks, maybemore since the cattle wereskittish, way off their homerange, and ready to run. Hisfacewasgrim.Didthisbunchhave anybody with a lick ofcow sense? Obviously they

didn’t, and that’s why theywere about to tie into a heapoftrouble.He rode as close to the

campashedaredandstudiedthe layout with farseeingeyes.Itwasdifficulttocountheadsasmencameandwentbetween tents in flickeringfirelight, but he figured theywere all there—Rube St.James and a dozen gunmendrinking too deep andlaughing too loud and not a

soulwiththeherd.Wright’s cowman’s soul

was outraged. He nodded tohimself.Allright.Thoseboysdeserved everything thatwascomingtothem.He turned and retraced his

stepstotheveryeasternedgeof the herd. Under a flaringsky, the restless longhornskept bunching, thenseparating and then they’dbunch again and drift. Aseasoned nighthawk would

not have allowed them todrift. He would have riddenamong them, his tunelessrenditions of “Goodbye OldPaint” or “Far and Away”keeping them calm andseparated.Of course, Kyle Wright

didn’t want the cattle calm.Hewanted themrunningduewest,intoandthroughtheSt.James camp and leavingcarnageintheirwake.Itwastime.

Wright racked hisWinchesterandfired.Allhellbrokeloose.For perhaps several

seconds the herd stood, thenthey were off and running,stampeding westward awayfrom the noise of the gun.Wrightfiredagainandagain,and the stampede gatheredsteam, the cattle’s poundinghooves making a sound likethunder. The herd chargedthrough the shallow valley

like water from a brokendam, a dangerous,unstoppable force of nature.In the distance, rifles bangedas the hired guns tried toshoottheleadersandturntheherd. But it was a hopelesstask, like using a peashooterto stop a chargingbuffalo.Athick cloud of rising dustmingled with the darknessand visibility dropped to afewyards.His devil prompting him,

Wright grinned and decidedtoadd to themiseryofRubeSt.Jamesandhisgunmen.Riding across churned-up

ground in the wake of thethunderingherd,hepulledhisbandana over his mouth andnose. Lost in ramparts ofrising dust, he was hiddenfrom sight. He rode forseveral minutes, his horsepicking its way around deadcattle, and then in the neardistance he heard men yell.

Swinginghardtohisright,herodeoutofthedustcloudintoclear air.His rifle still at theready, he headed toward thecamp but ahead of him hesaw only darkness and heardthe back and forth shouts offrightened men. Somewhereamid the chaos, a manscreamed incessantly,piercing shrieks thatsuggestedseriousandpainfulinjuries.Dipping down into a draw

among mesquite, Wrightdrew rein and again studiedthe night. He saw nothing.His plan had been to take afew pots and shake up St.Jamesandhiscohorts,buthehad no clear targets, onlyscreams and voices in thegloom.Wright had won a victory

of sorts, but it was just theopening skirmish of whatcouldbealongwar.Theherdwasscatteredtohellandgone

and without experienceddrovers it would take days,maybe weeks to round themup.RubeSt.Jameswouldnotpush the herd west any timesoon and for the moment,Wrightwascontenttoleaveitatthat.Usedup,hebootedhisrifle

and rode out of the draw,lookingforwardtocoffeeandhis bunk. He saw lightningflash,heardaroarofthunder,and felt somethinghard slam

intohisrightshoulder....Then blackness took him

andhefeltnothingatall.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN

“Wethoughthemighthavecome this way, beggin’ yourpardon, ma’am,” the youngpunchersaid.“No, I haven’t seen him,”

Kate said. “How long hasKylebeengone?”

“Since last night, ma’am.Mr.Hunthadapowwowwiththe owner of the big herd,wellhissisteristheowner—”“A woman owns the

herd?”Kateasked,surprised.“Yes, ma’am. But we

didn’ttalktoher.”“And it was after the

powwow that Kyledisappeared?” Kateconfirmed.“That’s thewayof it,Mrs.

Kerrigan.”

“Did you hear gunshots,anythinglikethat?”“One of the boys thought

he heard a couple shots, buthecouldn’tbesure.Anyway,wethoughKylewasstillwithus. The trail was real dark,youknow.”Kate was coping with

noises of her own. JazminSalas’sbabycriedandfussedin her cradle, demanding tobefed.Upontherise,Moses,expecting trouble, discharged

theold loads inhisDragoon,taking his own sweet timeabout it. Marco Salashammered iron at his forgeand Count AndropovbellowedinstructionsatTraceand Quinn on how to erectwhat he called his generalstore, but did no workhimself. The girls haddiscovered an indigo snakeand shrieked in unison as itwound toward them. OnlyFrank Cobb was quiet,

attentively listening to theexchange between Kate andtheHbarHpuncher.She frowned. Raising her

voice above the din, sheasked,“What is thisperson’sname?”“HisnameisRube—”“Hissister’sname.”“Savannah St. James,

ma’am.Youeverhearofher,Mrs.Kerrigan?”“No, I have not. With a

ten-dollar name like that I

would remember.”Kate keptat it. “What did Rube say atthemeeting?”“Only that his herd is

movingwestofthePecosandhe’s laying claim to all therange that’s worth claiming.Says he’ll gun anybody thatgets in his way.” The youngpuncher’s eyes flicked toFrank Cobb. “He’s apistolero. Real bad news, Ireckon.”ThentoKate,“Igottogetbackonthescout,Mrs.

Kerrigan. When we findKyle,we’llletyouknow.”“Hold up. We’re coming

with you.” Kate turned.“Trace,letQuinnworkonthestore. Get your rifle andsaddleup.”Tracegrinnedandletgoof

the beam he held upright.Immediately, the ricketystructure of the general storeswayedandfell inacrashingheap. “Fix that, Quinn,” hesaid as Count Andropov

turned the air blue with astring of Slavic curses andQuinn added a few Anglo-Saxononesofhisown.The puncher—his name

was Loop Davis and he wassixteenyearsoldthatsummer—retracedtheroutetheHbarHmenhad taken tomeet theSt. James herd. “Mr. Huntsaidhe’dsearchtothesouth,thenswingnorthagain.We’ll

meethimalongthetrail.”As they rode, four sets of

eyesscannedthelandaroundthem, a vast, rolling expanseof long grass where a man’sbody might lie hidden in ahollow and never be found.Yesterday’s rain was just amemoryandthedaywashot,theburned-outskycloudless.After an hour, Loop’s

young eyes saw a rideremerge through theshimmering heat haze and

canter toward them. “That’sMonk Boone. They musthave foundKyle.”He turnedto Kate. “Nobody knowswhatMonk’srealgivennameis,Mrs.Kerrigan,buthewasa monk for a spell when hewas younger.He’s kinda sadallthetime,isol’Monk.”And ol’ Monk looked sad

indeed.Atall,skinnydrinkofwater with the face of amiddle-aged saint, his voicesoundedlikeitcamefromthe

depths of a sepulcher.“Howdy,Loop.”“ColonelHunt findKyle?”

Loopasked.“Hefoundhim.”Afteramoment,Loopsaid,

“Well?”“Itain’tgood,Loop.”“Whathappened?”“Kyleisdead.”“Deadhow?”“Hung dead. That’s how,

Loop.”“WhereisMr.Hunt?”Kate

asked.“Upthetrailaways.Iwas

sentouttofindLoop.”Booneremoved his hat, revealingsparsebrownhair.“Youmustbe Mrs. Kerrigan. I’m rightpleased tomeet you,ma’am,if that’s in keeping with thesadoccasion.”“Take us to Mr. Hunt,

Monk,” Kate said. “And I’mpleasedtomeetyou,too.”

If Jason Hunt wassurprised that Kate Kerriganand the others had joined inthe search, he didn’t let itshow.Hemerely touchedhishat brim then said, “You seeit,Mrs.Kerrigan.”KyleWrighthungfromthe

bleached branch of a deadcottonwoodthatstoodnexttoa dry creek. His purpletongue poked out of hismouth, his chest was bare,andsomeonehadusedaknife

to cut words into the whiteskin.Stampeder&Murderer.“For God’s sake get him

down,” Kate said. Her facewas pale and her rosary wasinherhand.Huntnodded.“Iwantedall

theboystoseethis.Allright.Get Kyle down and we’llburyhimattheHbarH.”“And after that?” one of

thehandsasked.“There’s no after that,”

Hunt said. “Loop and Monk

will take Kyle back to theranch. You boys wash hisbody and then lay him outlike a Christian and a whiteman.When I get back,we’llburyhim.”“What are your intentions,

Mr.Hunt?”Kateasked.“I aim to hunt down the

men who did this,” therancher said. “Now two ofmy boys are dead and theremust be a reckoning. Mrs.Kerrigan, you got no call to

get involved in this, but I’dsurely like your son andFrankCobbatmyside.”“I’ll ride with you,” Kate

insisted. “I can handle arifle.”That was met with stony

silence.At the dead cottonwood,

LoopandacoupleothermengentlyloweredKyleWright’sbody to the ground. Abovethem, a single buzzardquarteredthesky.

Finally Trace said, “No,Ma. You’re needed back atthe house. You have toomany people depending onyou. The girls and Quinnneedyouthere.”“Trace speaks the truth,

ma’am,” Hunt said. “I thinkthetimewillcomesoonwhenyou’llneedtofighttoprotectwhat’s yours. But it will beon your own ground, nothere.”Kate turned to look at

Cobb. “Frank? Have youanything to say on mybehalf?”The segundo shook his

head. “Trace and Mr. Huntsaid it best, Kate. What’saheadofusisroughworkformighty rough men. Whetheryouwanted itornotwe’dbealwayslookingoutforyou.Amanwho gets distracted likethatcangethimselfkilled.”Kate sat her saddle

frowning. Then shemade up

her mind. “I’ll ride to the Hbar H with Loop and Monkandhelp themlayoutKyle’sbody and then I’ll pray overhim.” She glared at Cobb.“That’swomen’swork.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT

LoopDavis,MonkBoone,and Kate Kerrigan left withKyleWright’sbody.TraceandCobbstoodwith

Jason Hunt and four of hishands.Theynumberedseven,but all were good gun hands

and had shown sand in thepast.After riding for thirty

minutes,theysawthepathofthe stampeding herdstretching away from themlike a dirt road, cutting aswath a hundred yards wideacross the grassland.Carcasses of downed cattlemounded the flat all thewayto the shimmering horizon.Tracecountedfiftybeforehegaveupthetask.Hereckoned

there was probably threetimesthatnumber.Huntdrewreinandstudied

the stampede road for acouple minutes, then heswungoutof the saddle.Therancher kneeled and studiedoneofthedeadcows,thenhemoved to another, his facetroubled.Finally,hewavedahand at Sanchez. “Carlos,come over here and take alook.”Sanchez had ridden for

Charlie Goodnight and wascow-savvy.He examined thecarcass for several minutesuntil Hunt said, “Well, whatdoyouthink?”“You know what it is,

boss,”Sanchezsaid.Hunt frowned. “Charlie

Goodnight taught you well,andIwanttohearyousayit.”“This cowhad tick fever.”

Sanchez, a small, black-eyedman, waved a hand. “Andprobably all the others you

see dead. They were theweakest of the bunch andtheyfellandweretrampled.”“That could mean the

whole herd may be sick,”Huntsaid.“No, boss. It means the

wholeherd is sick,” Sanchezsaid. “And it will infect anyothercattleinitspath.”“Damnitall,”Huntswore.

“It couldwipe out thewholerange.”“Tick fever spreads like

wildfire,boss.If thebigherdcomeseast, allyoucando ismove your cattle out of theway.”“No, we’ll turn them, by

God.” Hunt looked at Cobb.“Youheardallthis?”“I sure did. Tick fever is

notsomethingtomesswith.”“And?”Hunt said, slightly

irritated.“Allwe can do is turn the

herd,” Cobb said. “We can’tshoot ten thousand cattle,

even if we had all theammunitionintheworld.”“Frank,youreckonthisSt.

James gal knows her cattleareinfected?”Huntasked.“Probably not. From what

I’ve seen, nobody in thatoutfit knows the first thingaboutcattle.”“Then let’s go educate

her,”ColonelHuntsaid.

Trace, riding scout,discovered two bodies aboutfifty yards apart lying in thescar cut across the grasslandby the stampeding herd. Herecognized thepoundedmassof jelly flattened into theearth as males, but that wasaboutasfarashecouldgo.“Looks like they tried to

turn the herd on foot.” Huntshook his head. “MyGod inheaven,howstupidcan thesepeoplebe?”

“Stupidity can make somepeople dangerous. They dobad things withoutconsidering theconsequence.” Cobb smiled.“Somethingtobearinmind,Iguess.”“Well, there’s nothing we

can do for these two.” Huntstared ahead of him. “Let’ssee if we can find any morestupiddeadpeople.”The young gunman lying

in the wreckage of what had

beentheSt.Jamescampwasnot dead . . . but he seemedclosetoit.WhenhesawHuntand his riders move towardhim, he picked up the Coltthat lay beside him andyelled,“That’sfarenough!”Huntwasnotinclinedtobe

sociable. “Touch off thathogleg and I’ll hang you,boy.”Herodetowithinafewfeet of the man and swungout of the saddle. “Let thepistoldrop.”

After a moment’shesitation, the kid droppedthe gun and said, “Both mylegsarebusted.Damnedcowrolledoverthem.”Hunt received that

information in silence. Hedrew his own revolver andsaid, “I’m going to ask youone question, boy. You givemethewronganswerandI’llscatter your brains.Understood?”“Damn you, my legs are

broke!” the young gunmancried.“Do you want to hear the

question?”Huntasked.Thekid lookedat themen

who were still mounted, hisstare lingering for a momentonTrace.But,liketheothers,he saw nothing in his stonyexpression that offeredsympathy.“Ask your damned

question, old man,” thegunmansaid.

“Didyouhaveanyhandinthehangingofmyforeman?”Huntasked.“Hell, no,” thekid said. “I

didn’t even know he’d beenhung. After the stampede,Rube brought a man herewho’d been shot. Rube beathimupsome,thenheandtheothersputthemanonahorseand left. My legs was brokesotheytoldmetostayhere.”“WhereisSt.Jamesnow?”

Cobbasked.

“He’s with his sister, Iguess.ShecomeupfromSanAntone to join the drive butthatwasafewdaysago.”“The herd is scattered to

hell and gone,” Cobb said.“Who’sroundingthemup?”“A bunch of men like me

who don’t know nothin’aboutroundingupcows,”thegunman said. “But I heardRube say he could hirevaquerosdownontheborder.Maybethat’swhereheis.”

“Where’syourhoss,boy?”Huntasked.“Rube and them took it.

We lost abunchofhorses inthe stampede.” The youngman shook his head. “Yourforemansureplayedhob.”Huntstaredonthegunman.

“Yeah,well,heain’tlikelytodothateveragain,ishe?”“I didn’t kill him,” the

young gunman said, his facedefiant.“No,butyouwereapartof

it,”Huntoffered.Henry Brown turned his

coldblueeyestotherancher.“Wantmetogunhim,boss?”Hunt shookhishead. “No,

leave him be. It’s Rube St.JamesIwantandthemthat’swithhim.”“Youcan’t leavemealone

outhere,” theyounggunmancried. “Rube ain’t comingbackforme.Hedon’tgiveadamn.”“Andfrankly,neitherdoI.

You should have thoughtabout all this when you tiedinwithhim.”Huntturnedhisbackandsteppedtohishorse.Hehadsecondstolive.The young man retrieved

the gun he’d dropped,thumbed back the hammer,and yelled, “Stop right there,damnyou!”Withoutturning,Huntsaid,

“Gotohell.”Thegunmanfired,oneshot

into the center of Hunt’s

back. Henry Brown’s bulletslammed into the youngman’s forehead and killedhim instantly,buthewas toolate.His spine shattered, Jason

Hunt also lay dead on theground.Trace Kerrigan and the

other riders dismounted andgatheredaroundHunt’sbody.Cobb kneeled beside the

rancher, then looked up andshookhishead.“He’sgone.”

“I left it too late,” HenryBrown said, his young facepale.“You didwhat you had to

do.” Cobb rose to his feet.“Youwerefaster thananyofus.”“Not fast enough.” Brown

said.“Whydidthatlittleson-of-a-bitch shoot Mr. Hunt?He must have known we’dkillhim.”“Because the gun was all

heknew,”Cobbsaid.“That’s

howhe’dbeentaughttosettlea dispute and doing it anyother way didn’t even enterinto his thinking. You knowhowmanykids thereare justlike him in Texas? The gunremoves all difficulties andsolves all problems. Theirfathers and brothers whofoughtinthewartaughtthemthat.”“High-sounding words,

Cobb,”Brown said. “But thenext one of them St. James

boysIsee,I’llshootfirstandsave the fancy words for hisfuneral.”There were nods of

approvalfromtheotherHbarHpunchers.TraceKerrigan said, “That

setsjustfinewithme.”They were angry, bitter

menandthestagewassetfora bloody war that in lateryearsonlythedeadwouldnotregret.

CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE

Kate Kerrigan stood indappled moonlight under theancientoakthatstoodinfrontof the H bar H ranch house.Coyotes yipped in thedistance as though mourningthe dead and inside the oil

lampsweredimmedandcastlittlelight.Cobb stepped out of the

houseandsawKate.Even inthegloom,herbeautyburnedlike a candle flame. Hesteppedbesideher.“Canyoubearmycompany,Kate?”Sheturnedandsmiled.“I’d

appreciate it, Frank,especially tonight. I see hardtimescomingdown.”“Predicting the future is

likedrivingagalloping four-

horse team down a countryroad in the dark. You justcan’t tell what’s going tohappen.”“I wish I could believe

that.TheIrishhavethegift.Icanseeafairpiecedownthatdarkcountryroad.”“I won’t let anything

happen to you, Kate,” hepromised.“I know, Frank. And I

appreciate your concern.”The moonlight touched her

hair gently, like a shy lover.“Ihavesolittle,acabinandafew cattle. Why wouldsomeonewanttotakeitfromme?”“Idon’tknow,Kate.Ican’t

thinklikeRubeSt.Jamesandhis sister. I don’t knowwhatdrivespeoplelikethat.Greed,power,aneedtohurtothers?Ijustdon’tknow.”Kate managed a smile.

“Well, the danger is over fornow.Itwilltakethemawhile

togathertheherdagain.”“It’s not over. Jason Hunt

and Kyle Wright are dead.There’s got to be areckoning.”“No, Frank. I don’t want

that. What can punchers doagainstprofessionalgunmen?Allwe’ddoistofritterawayour strength. We must fightSt. James, I agree, but onground and at a time of ourownchoosing.”“They lost four men as a

resultofthestampede,”Cobbsaid. “Henry Brown is goodwith a gun and so is CarlosSanchez. If we hit St. Jamesnowwhilehe’son the ropes,wecantakehim.”“How many men has he,

Frank?”“Idon’tknow,maybeeight

or so, nine including St.James himself. I don’t knowif he’s any good with theiron.”Kate shook her head. “It’s

too thin,Frank. Iwon’t let ithappen that way. You couldall be killed. We have timefor me to talk with some ofthe other ranchers and enlisttheir help. We’ll gather ourstrengthandbeready.”Cobb, deeply aware of the

moonlight that enhancedKate’sspectacular loveliness,didn’t let his irritation show.“Kate, there are only tworanches that count, theHbarHandyours.Suretherearea

few one-loop outfits to thenorth of us, but they’d be oflittle help. We need pistolfighters and allwe’dget is afew used-up married menwith kids and moneyworries.”“I hope I can prove you

wrong, Frank. Now if you’llexcuse me, I must go prayoverthedead.”“ThenI’lljoinyou.Butme

and God ain’t exactly onspeakingterms.”

Katewasseriouswhenshesaid, “He’ll listen though.Dependonit.”“They’ll listen to me. I’ll

make them listen,” SavannahSt.Jamessaid.“And if theydon’t?”Rube

asked.“Then I’ll shoot and hang

them all, man, woman, andchild.IneedthatlandandI’lltake it.” Savannah sipped

bloodredwine from a crystalglass.“Whatoftheherd?”“The vaqueros I hired say

we lost no more than threehundred head,” Rube said.“But some of the others aresick.”Thewoman dismissed that

with a wave of her eleganthand.“Cowsarealwayssick.Whatnewsoftheguns?”“You’ll recall IwiredJack

Hickam from San Antone. Ireckonhe’llbehere ina few

days. He’s coming downfrom Fort Concho and PeteSliceriswithhim.”“Onlythosetwo?”“Savannah, when you got

Hickam and Slicer that’s allyouneed.”“Reuben, when you have

HickamandSlicer...pleasedon’t lapse into thevernacular of the barbarians.Itdoesnotbecomeyou.”Sherose to her feet and her rust-coloredsilkdressmadeasoft

sound. She glanced out thewindow and sighed. “Awilderness populated bysavages. I must get back toBoston, Paris, London . . .anywhere but this howlingwasteland.”As it so often did,

Savannah’s restless mindchanged course. “Reuben,thatman you hanged, did hesuffer? I want him to havesuffered.”“Ittookhimalongtimeto

die,sistermine.”“I asked you did he

suffer?”“Yes,hedid.Attheend,he

didn’tknowwherehewasorwhohewas.”“Good.Thatmakesmefeel

better.” She dropped a littlecurtsy. “You are mostgracious.”Rube smiled and gave a

little bow. “Your obedientservant,Savannah.”Savannah St. James was a

once ravishing beauty who’dbeen,inturns,themistressofa German prince, a richAmerican industrialist, theEnglish actor DrinkwaterMeadows, andmore recentlyMaximilian, Emperor ofMexico. But as sheapproached her fortieth year,though still a beautifulwoman, her loveliness wasfadingfast.Thewormofagewas in the rose and no oneknew that better than

Savannah St. James herself.Maximilian was dead by aBenito Juárez firing squad,Charlotte, the loyalwifewhohad tolerated Savannah’sdazzling presence in herhusband’slife,hadsufferedamental breakdown after hisdeathandwasconfinedtoaninsane asylum. Bereft of herlover and benefactor,Savannah had sold all herjewels to support a lifestyleshe could no longer afford.

All that stood between herand grinding poverty was acattle herd. Her brother hadassuredherthat,comespring,the cattle could bring fortydollars a head. Even afterexpenses and wastage, thatamounted to close to fourhundred thousand dollars,enough for Savannah andRube to live in luxury backeastorinEurope.That was Savannah St.

James’sdreamandshe’dkill

and kill again to make it areality.MarmadukeTweng,who’d

been silent, stirred in hischair, then laid his teacupaside.“Mr.St.James,howistheterraintothewest?”“You mean for the safe

passage of the EmperorMaximilian?”“Indeed, sir,” Tweng said.

“Thatismyconcern.”“Flat, rolling country,”

Rubesaid. “Ideal country for

theEmperor.”“Then,sir,youhavesetmy

mind at rest. There is verylittle that can stop a steam-powered colossus like theEmperor,but—”“It can’t fly across a

canyon,”Savannahsaid.Tweng nodded. “That is

indeed the case. One day,steam engineswill launch usinto the sky, but, alas, thetimehasnotyetarrived.”Tweng was a former

London cabbie, a tiny manwhose wizened, weather-beaten face resembled awithered yellow apple. Hewore a brown felt derby hatadornedwithdrivinggogglesand an olive-colored tweedsuit with elastic-sided boots.As was his habit, he carriedan1866Remingtonderringerinaleather-linedbackpocketand a brass compass hungaround his neck from a cordchain. He had once driven

Queen Vic’s consort PrinceAlbertaroundHydeParkonerainy Saturday afternoon in1859 and had considered itthehighlightofhiscareer...until he met Savannah St.James and she asked him tothe take the driver’s seat ofthe mighty land linerEmperorMaximilian.Savannah sat again and

shook the bell that stood onthe arm of her chair. A dooropenedbehindherandaslim

black woman in a smartmaid’s uniform stepped intothe room and gave a littlecurtsy.“Ah,Leah, there you are,”

Savannah said. “Pleasepreparemybath.”Shelookedat Marmaduke Tweng. “Ipresume we have plenty ofhotwater.”The little man got to his

feet. “I’ll check the valvesright now,ma’am. But I canassure you that there’s a

plentifulsupply.”“Make it good and hot,

Leah.It’stheonlywaytogetridofthisprairiedust.”Leah bowed. “As you

wish,mylady.”AfterTweng and themaid

left, Savannah looked at herbrother. “Reuben, I want tobegin the drive west as soonaspossible.”“No more than a week,

perhapsless.”“This is an affair of the

greatest moment. Pleaseinstill a sense of urgency inyourself and the rest of ourpeople.”Rube grinned. “Savannah,

this time next year you’ll besummeringinLondontown.”“I do hope so. I must

confess I’m all at sixes andsevens over this wholebusiness.” Savannah rose toher feet, the silk of herafternoon dress clinging toher shapely body like a

second skin. “Tell the gunsthat they must kill withouthesitation.”“They already know that,

Savannah.”“Yes, yes of course they

do. You think of everything,Reuben. Why do I doubtyou?”“Relaxinyourbathandall

will be well.” Rube gave alittlebow.“Now,ifImaybeexcused?”“Of course. May I expect

youfordinner?Cookassuresme that we will have achicken pie, a quantity ofboiled ham served cold withmustard, and a steamedtreaclepuddingfordessert.”“Iwouldn’tmiss it for the

world.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY

Kate Kerrigan stepped outof the darkness and stood inthe scarlet glare of MarcoSalas’s forge. Showers ofsparks cascaded from thefoot-long billet of iron he’dthrust into the charcoal. Hestared intently at the flames

thatwouldchangecolorwhenthe iron began to absorb thecarbonthatwouldturnitintosteel. The leather bellowshuffedandpuffedandthefireglowed likeapoolofmoltenlava. Salas saw the flame hewanted, tonged the billet outoftheforge,hammereditflat,and then plunged it hissingand steaming into the water.Heshoved the ironback intothecoalsandsaid,“ItwillbeaknifeforMr.Cobb.”

Kate nodded. “I know.Hetold me. I’d never seen ablademadebefore.”“It takes time, much

heating and hammering, toturn iron into steel, Mrs.Kerrigan.Theflameswilltellme when the miraclehappens.”Kate smiled. “It’s a

miracle,Marco?”Hisfacelitbyfire,thelittle

Mexicansaid,“Yes it is, andthat’swhy I pray to holy St.

Dunstan, the patron saint ofblacksmiths, locksmiths,goldsmiths, and silversmiths,to deliver the miracle ontime.” He nodded to thehorseshoe that hung abovethedoorwayoftheforge.“Doyouseethat,Mrs.Kerrigan?”Katenodded.“Ahorseshoe

islucky.”“It is more than that. One

time, as St. Dunstan wasworkingatamonasteryforgein Glastonbury, the devil

came to him disguised as abeautifulyounggirlandtriedtotempthimintosin.ButSt.Dunstan saw the devil’scloven hooves under thegirl’s dress and nailed ahorseshoe to one of them.Thiscausedthedevilsomuchpain that he begged St.Dunstan to remove it. Thesaint said he would but onlyontheconditionthatthedevilnever again enter ablacksmith’s shop.” Salas

stared at the flames. “To thisday, as long as a horseshoehangs above the door, thedevil will not come near aforge because he is tooafraid.” Salas removed thewhite-hotbilletfromthefire.Kate took a step closer.

“MayItrythehammer?”“Of course. I want the

metalflattersoIcanformtheblade.”He laid the billet on the

anvil and gave Kate the

hammer. She did what theMexican had done andpounded the iron as hard asshecould.“No, Mrs. Kerrigan, you

don’t need to hit that hard.The hammer blow must beaccurate, not powerful. Thetrickistohitthemetalwhereyouwant.”Hewatched for awhile then said, “Ah, nowyou’re chasing the blade allovertheanvil.”Kate stopped and grinned.

“I think you’d better takeover,Marco.”Theironwentbackintothe

fire and the blacksmith said,“Yourmindmustbeonewiththemetal,Mrs.Kerrigan.Ifasmith has worries andconcerns, it is betterhe turnsofftheforge,cleanstheshop,and goes home. Tomorrowwill be another and betterday.”“I hope I didn’t ruin

Frank’sknife,”Katesaid.

Salas shook his head.“There are no mistakes inblacksmithing. The iron isforgiving because it canalways be reused andreshaped. There are alwayssecondchances, inmetal andinmen.”Kate nodded. “That’s

somethingtoremember.”“Aclearmindmeansgood

work, Mrs. Kerrigan, andtonight your mind is notclear,Ithink.”

“Is it that obvious,Marco?”“The iron told me, did it

not?”“The ranchers I’ve spoken

to told me our fight withSavannah St. James is noneoftheirconcern.Theysayherherd won’t come their wayandthekillingsofJasonHuntand Kyle Wright have themreallyshaken.”Salas nodded. “If the

owner of one of the biggest

ranchesinWestTexascanbekilled,thensocanthey.”“That’s how they see it,”

Katesaid.“Notone?”Kate shook her head. “I

really can’t say I blame thesmall ranchers. Savannah St.JameswantstheHbarHandKerrigan range. Why wouldtheyfightforus?”“You’vebeengood tome,

Mrs.Kerrigan.Your ranch isnow my home and I will

fight.”Kate smiled. “I know you

will,Marco.AndIappreciateit.”Avoicecamefrombehind

them. “The night is gettingcool,Kate.Maybeyoushouldget inside.” Cobb stood halfin shadow.Hewore his gun,a thing he seldom did thatclosetothecabin.Salasturnedawayfromthe

forge. “Mrs.Kerrigan helpedmewithyourknife.”

“I didn’t do much. I . . .whatwasityousaid,Marco?Oh yes, I chased the iron allovertheanvil.”“All it takes is practice,”

Salassaid.“And dedication.” Kate

staredatCobbforamoment,then turned back to Salas.“Thankyouforlettingmetrythehammer,Marco.I’llleaveittoyoufromnowon.”She took Cobb’s arm and

they walked together toward

the cabin. “What hashappened,Frank?”“The H bar H punchers

havepulledout,allbutHenryBrown.”Kate was shocked into

silenceandCobbtookuptheslack.“Brownsayswiththeirboss dead, the hands reckontheygotnobrandlefttofightfor. Sanchez, Monk Boone,and Loop Davis and theothers talked amongthemselvesandfiguredthey’d

be up against a stacked decktaking on a bunch of hiredguns.”Shefoundhervoice.“ButI

thought they wanted revengefor the murder of Mr. Hunt.Frank, you know how angrytheywere.”“Kate, anger can carry a

man only so far beforecommon sense takes over.FourofSt.James’smenwerekilled in the stampede, andthey shot to pieces the man

who killed Jason Hunt. Ireckon they figure they doneenough.”“Did Jason Hunt have an

heir,someonewhocouldtakeover his ranch and get thepunchersback?”Kateasked.“I once heardHunt say he

had a sister back eastsomewhere, but that shewasailingwithacancer.”“Doweknowhowtoreach

her?”Cobbfrowned.“Maybeher

address is in Hunt’scorrespondence. We’d haveto look. But if she was aspoorly as he made out Ireckonshe’sdeadbynow.”Afterafewmoments,Kate

liftedher chin. “Then there’sonlyus.”“Seemslike.”She stared at her segundo.

“I’mafraid,Frank.”“No shame in that, Kate.

I’mafraid,too.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE

Rube St. James drew reinand studied the ranch housethat lay a mile or so to theeast of Table TopMountain.The limestone mesa itself,risingtwohundredfeetabovethe flat, was covered in athick growth of juniper, oak,

chaparral,andcactus,but thesurrounding area was rollinggrassland where a scatteredherd of about two hundredlonghorns grazed. To hisenvious eyes, it seemed likeanexcellentplace forpart ofhis own herd to fatten overthe rest of the summer andinto next spring. Savannahmight disagree, preferring todrive the entire herd fartherwest, but the ranch was stillworthacquiring.

Rube took a brass ship’stelescopefromhissaddlebagsand scanned the ranch housemoreclosely.Itwasamodestaffair, small and crampedwithasodroof.Afewshabbyoutbuildings, a pole corral,andawellwithanironpumpwere nearby. A woman wholookedtobepregnantsteppedoutofthedoor,tossedawayapan of dirty water, andwentbackinside.Then Rube saw what he

needed to see. A man cameround the side of the cabinleading a yearling colt. Hewore no belt gun and lookedexactly like what he was, aone-loop rancher living ahardscrabble existence at theraggededgeofnowhere.RubeSt.Jamessmiled,put

theglassaway,andkneedhishorseforward.Heanticipatedno trouble.He’d tell themantogoandhe’dgo.In an age corset-bound by

theVictoriancodeofethics,avisitor was expected to hailthe dwelling and then sit hishorse until given permissionto light and set.That iswhatRube St. James would havedoneforpeopleheconsideredmembers of his own class,but a cocklebur rancher, likethe poor, blacks, Mexicans,and Indians,merited no suchconsideration.Rube swung out of the

saddle and fisted the rickety

door so hard it rattled on itshinges.Thedoorwasopenedalmost immediately by abrown-eyed, brown-hairedman of medium height andbuild, a striking contrast tothe tall, blond, blue-eyed St.James.The rancher was angry.

“Why the hell do youhammeronaman’sdoorlikethat?”Rube smiled. “Howdy. I’ll

sumthingsupforyouintwo

words.Getout!”Themanwas taken aback.

“Mister, are you crazy? Iwant you off my propertynow.”“I told you to get out,”

Rube said. “Take what youcancarryandlightashuck.”The rancher turned his

head.“Jane,Igotacrazymanhere.Bringmemyrifle.”“Norifle!”Rubeyelled.He

drewandfired.Hit dead center in his

chest, the men staggered afew steps backward and thenfell on his back. The impactofhisbodyhittingthetimberfloor made the cabin shake.The woman screamed. Sherantoherhusband’ssideandthrew herself on his body,sobbinguncontrollably.In a conversational tone,

Rube said, “Ma’am, I’llsaddle thehorse in thecorralforyousoyoucanbeonyourway. I thought it might rain

earlier, but all I see now isblue sky. Real nice weatherforriding.”The woman’s tearstained

face turned to Rube and sheshrieked,“Youfiend!You. ..murderer!”Shescrambledtoher feet and dashed into thecabin.Amoment later,Rubeheard the click-clack of alever rifle and then the thudofheelsonthefloor.Heshotthewomanassheappearedatthedoor.TheHenrydropped

from her lifeless hands andshe collapsed on top of herhusband.Rube lowered his head in

thought. As Savannah oftentold him, the lower classeshad no idea how to act in acivilized society and couldalwaysbedependedon todothewrongthing.“Allyouhadto do was walk away,” hesaid to the dead. “You fools,was that so damneddifficult?”

His first thought was toburn down the cabin, but thesummer grasswas tinder dryand now that he’d acquirednew graze, he didn’t want itto burn away under his feet.He contented himself withkickinglegsasideandclosingthecabindoor.A few minutes later, he

rode away with the Henryrifle,thepaintcowponyfromthe corral, and the mustangcolt. Those were the only

items of worth the deadcouplehadpossessed.

Marmaduke Tweng wasindignant.“That,mydearsir,istheEmperorMaximilian,atriumph of modern steamengineering. Put wings on itand I could drive it to themoon.”“Damn thing looks like a

railroadcarcut inhalf,”Jack

Hickamsaid.“The Emperor does not

need rails,” Tweng said. “Itwill go anywhere there is aroadanditcanfordriversandclimbhillsifneedbe.”Thelandlinerhadsixgreat

drivewheels,eachastallasaman.Thecabinwasupfront,the boiler, smoke box, andcoal tender behind the driverand then the passengercompartment.Thesteelofthegreat coiled wheel springs

were polished to a silversheenand the tangleofbrasssteel pipes glowed like solidgold. The liner was painteddark green and boasted fourwindows to a side and anengravedbrassplaqueayardlong read, EMPERORMAXIMILIAN, each letterpickedoutinred.“Thesteamlinerwasagift

to Miss St. James from theEmperor Maximilianhimself,” Tweng said. “He

brought engineers over fromGermany to build themachine and they laterdeclaredittheirmasterpiece.”“Youmustbe themenmy

brother is expecting.”Savannah St. James stood inone of the Emperor’s threesidedoorways.Herblackhairwas undone and hung overthe shoulders of a brightscarlet robe that revealed agreat deal of her milk-whitebreastsandthighs.

Hiseyespoppingoutofhishead,Hickamsaid,“Wesureare, ma’am. Jack Hickam atyour service as everwas andmyassociatePeteSlicer.”Slicer bowed from the

saddle. “Your servant, MissSt.James.”Hickamwasa rough-hewn

man with a broad, savageface and experienced eyesthat slowly removedSavannah’s robe. Pete Slicerwas thin, almost frail, a

small-boned man who wasfast beyond belief, as thesixteenmenhe’dkilledcouldattest. He was being eatenaway by a stomach cancer,anditpainedhim.“We were just admiring

your. . .ah.. .wagon,MissSt. James.” Hickam’s eyesneverleftSavannah’sbody.“Mr. Tweng,” Savannah

said,enjoyingHickam’sheat,“fire up the Emperor. I’msureMr.Hickamwillenjoya

ride.”“Perhaps some other time,

MissSt.James,”Hickamsaidquickly. He didn’t trust theinfernal thingnot toblowupandtakehalfofTexaswithit.“Very well,” Savannah

said. “Yes, then some othertime.” It pleased her thatshe’d put the crawl on themost feared gunman in theWest. The barbarian wouldhave to be kept in his place.“Putupyourhorsesandcome

insideforadrink,gentlemen.My home on wheels is ahumble one, therefore I trustMartell cognac is to yourtaste.”Tweng unbuckled his

hooded leather coat andremoved his goggles fromaroundhisneckandreplacedthem on his hat. He wasrelievedhehadnotneededtofire up the Emperor

Maximilian. Raisingsufficient steam was a longandlabor-intensiveprocess.A movement in the

distance attracted hisattention and then a rideremerged through the heathaze leading twohorses.Thelittle man finally recognizedthe rider as Rube St. James.Tweng would not ask wherethemangotthehorses.Itwasprettyobvious.Mr. St. James was forever

killingsomepoorsoul.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-TWO

“I’ve called you alltogetherbecauseI’vereachedan important decision and Iwishtoknowifyouconcur,”Katesaid.Cobb smiled. “Kate, since

when did you need our

approvalforanything?”“You’reright,Frank.ButI

don’t want your approvalbecause my mind is alreadymade up.What I wish is foryou to agree or disagree asyourconsciencedictates.”“Ma,youplantoshootthat

St. James woman,” Quinnsaid.“Not quite, Quinn. And

please don’t speakwith yourmouthfull.”Theboylaidhisbiscuiton

hisplate.“Sorry.”“You’re being very

mysterious, Karina,” CountAndropov said. “Have youdecidedtotakeahusbandandamItheluckyone?”Kate smiled. “No, Count,

thatisnotthecase.”“Then I am devastated,”

the Russian said, spreadinghis hands. “My heart isbroken. I shouldhaveknownthatapeddlerdarenotaspiretoaqueen.”

“Since you don’t havemarriage inmind,don’tkeepus in suspense, Kate,” Cobbsaid.“Verywellthen.”Shetook

a deep breath. “I’ve decidedtotakeovertheHbarH—theland, the cattle, horses, theranchhouse,andoutbuildingspertaining thereto. In otherwords—allofit.”Kate’s words were met

withsilence,thenMosesRiceasked,“Mr.Huntdidn’thave

kinfolk,no?”“A sister maybe,” Henry

Brown said. “If she’s stillaboveground.”“Andifshecomestoclaim

the H bar H then I willsurrender it toherwillingly,”Kate said. “But in themeantime, I will not havesquatters moving onto Huntrange.”Shelookedfirsttohersegundo.“Frank?”“Sets just fine with me,

Kate. You’d surrender the

Huntspreadwillingly?”“We’ll see,” Kate said,

refusing to meet his smilingeyes.“Trace?”“Ihavenoobjections,Ma.”“Mose?”“You always do the right

thing,MizKate.”“Marco, I’d like your

opinion,”Katesaid.“You are my patrón. That

isallIhavetosay.”“Mister Brown, you

workedforJasonHunt,”Kate

said.“Whatdoyousay?”“Ma’am, if you can take

the land and hold it untilspring, then go right ahead.The H bar H will make theKerrigan spread the biggestranchinWestTexas.”Kate frowned. “Hold it,

Mr.Brown?”“You got a diseased herd

andsomemightyhardpeopleheaded this way, ma’am,”Brown said. “It ain’thappened yet, but in a week

ortwo,maybeless,awarwillcomerighttoyourdoorstep.”“Will you stand with us,

Mr.Brown?”Kateasked.“Sure. Now Mr. Hunt is

gone,Igotnobosstoanswerto. But I’ll be gone for awhile.Got to attend to somepersonalbusiness.”Katelookedhimintheeye.

“Will you be gone long,Mr.Brown?”“No,not long. I’llbeback

whenyouneedme.”

“ThenweareagreedthatItakeover theHbarH,”Katesaid.“IwilltellDr.Fullertonlater. She needs to knowthesethings.”“There are some things I

need to say first, Mrs.Kerrigan,” Brown saidsuddenly.“Please feel free,” Kate

said, but she frowned a littleagain.“There’s close to ten

thousand cattle headed this

way, all of them with tickfever,” Brown said. “If youletthemgetamongyourown,yourcowswillallbedeadormighty sick before its timeforthespringgather.Ma’am,that could put you out ofbusiness.”Cobb looked at the

puncher. “What do yousuggest,Henry?”“Get your cows the hell—

begging your pardon,ma’am—outoftheway.DrivetheH

barHcattleallthewayacrosstheMexicoborder ifneedbeand the Kerrigan herd northwhere there’s grass andwater. Mrs. Kerrigan, thenyou burn this cabin and theold Hunt place. LeaveSavannah St. James nothingthat she can use to getthroughthewinter.”“Scorched earth,” Count

Andropovsaidwithanairofgreat finality. “That is whatweRussiansdid toNapoleon

when he invaded themotherland.”“Will the St. James herd

last through winter?” Kateasked.“No,ma’am,”Brownsaid.

“The buzzards will grow sofat theywon’t be able to getofftheground.”Intrigued, she asked

another question. “DoesSavannah St. James knowthis?”“My guess would be no.

And if you told her, shewouldn’tbelieveyou.”“They haven’t made a

move this way yet,” Cobbsaid.“The stampede slowed

them,” Brown said. “Butcountonit.They’recoming.”“What do you think,

Frank? Imean aboutmovingtheherds,”Katesaid.“What Henry says makes

sense, Kate. Just get yourcattleoutoftheway.”

Kate nodded. “I’ll takeyour advice intoconsideration,Mr.Brown. Inthemeantime, I’ll rideout totheHuntplacetomorrowandtake a look at the grass andthecattle.”“I’ll ride with you, Ma,”

Tracesaid.“No. You’ll stay here in

case the St. James womanmakes a move against us.”She smiled. “Trace, I’ll takemyderringer and a rifle, and

I’ll be quite safe. I don’treallythinkwehaveanythingtofearuntilthefall.”Henry Brown looked as

though he was about to saysomething, but Cobb said,“Don’t waste your breath,Henry. When Kate Kerrigantiesontoathing,nothingyoucan say will change hermind.”Katesmiled.“Why,Frank,

what excellent advice yougive.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-THREE

Kate Kerrigan crossed thePecosshortlyaftersunupandthen headed southwest ontothe H bar H range. After anhour of riding, she saw herfirst steer, a big brindle thatploddedinherdirectionfora

few yards, then stopped, hisnose lifted to thewind.Afterthat more and more cattleappeared, all of them sleekandfatfromgrazingongoodgrassandwhatwasat leastatrickle of water in moststreams.Therangelookedjustfine,

the cattle healthy, and at nopoint did she see signs thatsquatters had moved cattleontoHuntgrass.Sherodealongthebankof

adrywashforthirtyminutes,looped around a stand ofmesquite and juniper withtanglesofbrushandcactusinbetween, then latched onto awide trail that aimed straightasanarrowduesouth.As she expected, the trail

led to the Hunt ranch house.The place was deserted.Devoid of the people thatgave it life, its windowsstared at herwith dead eyes.Overbythebunkhouseadoor

banged open and shut in thewind. The day was hot, thesun burning bright in a bluesky,yetKate shiveredas sheurged her horse toward thecabin, a place fit only forghosts.She rode past the empty

corral and stepped out of theleather when she was stillseveral yards from the door.She thought about taking herriflebutdecidedtoleaveitintheboot.Thederringerinthe

pocket of her riding dresswouldsuffice.The interior of the cabin

revealed the personality ofthe man who’d lived there:dark polished wood, steel-studded leatherchairs, a rackof charred briar pipes on themantel above a great roundstove manufactured fromrivetedironandbrass.OnonewallhungapictureofRobertE.Leeandontheopposite,astrange juxtaposition, a

portrait of Abraham Lincolndraped inblackcrepe.Agunrack hung on thewall to therightofthedoor,buttherifleswere gone, as was the pettycash from an upturnedcashbox.Worncow-skinrugscovered the wood floor andwith great solemnity amassive grandfather clocktickedinacorner.LikeJustinHunt himself, the cabin wassolid, steady, and seeminglyindestructible.

Oddly depressed, Katestepped out of the door backintothemorningsunlight.A tall, flashily handsome

man in a frilled white shirt,riding breeches, and knee-high English boots sat hishorsegrinningather.Hehada Colt in his hand butholstered the pistol andswung gracefully out of thesaddle. “Well, well, well,whatdowehavehere?”“My name is Kate

Kerrigan.Thisismypropertyandyouareonit.”“I beg to differ,” the man

said. He gave a deep bow.“Rueben St. James at yourservice.”Suddenlyveryconsciousof

how tightly her corsetedridinghabitfittedatthewaistand bust, Kate said, “I’veheard of you.What can I doforyou,Mr.St.James?”The man’s grin was not

pleasant. “There’s a lot you

candoforme,littlelady.”“I have riders close,”Kate

said.“Not close enough.” St.

James took a step towardKate, another, then stopped.“I’ve claimed this ranch, buthere’smydeal.Youcanhaveit back after the springroundup.” The man’s grinshowed he was used togetting anything he wanted.“I expect you’ll have a bigbellybythenandyou’llhave

metothankforit.”“Just don’t hurtme,”Kate

said. “I’ll give you anythingyouwant,butdon’tbeatme.”St.James’sgrinturnedtoa

sneer.“Oh,but Iplan tohurtyoualot.”“No,please...”St. James grabbed her, his

hands moving all over herbody, squeezing hard. Heforced his open mouth onhers and said, “Into thecabin.”

“Yes...yes...justdon’thurt me.” Kate dropped herhand to her pocket and shethumbedbackthehammeroftheRemington.She tilted thelittle pistol and fired fromthere. The .41 caliber bulletrippedthroughthematerialofher dress and slammed intoSt. James’s left side justunder the ribs and plowedeightinchesintohisbelly.Hewasadeadmanandheknewit.

He screamed, a primalscreech of rage, pain, andfear.With his red eyes fixedonKate,hetookasteptohisright,andbroughthisColtupfast. The hammer of herderringer snagged in herpocket and she felt the spikeofherownfear.Blam!Therifleshot thatdropped

Rube St. James shattered thesilence of themorning like arock through glass. Hitting

between his left temple andthe top of his ear, the .44-40scatteredhisbrains,andinaninstant the dying man was adeadman.Kate managed to yank

clearthederringerandturnedtoseeTracesittinghishorse,a smoking Henry in hishands.“SorryIwaslate,Ma.”Still shaken, she gave a

little grunt. “You weren’tlate.Youwerejustintime.”

Trace dismounted andlooked at the dead man.“Whoishe?”“That’s Reuben St. James.

He was a piece of filth whothought I was too scared ofhimtofight.”“Well, I reckonyou taught

himotherwise.”Trace’s eyesmet his mother’s. “Is it overnow,Ma?”“No, it’s not. I have a

feeling it’s only beginning.ThismorningIlitthefuse.”

“What do we do withhim?”Tracesaid.“Tie him on his horse and

sendhimhometohissister,”Katesaid.Trace sensed the steel in

hismother.“I’llgetitdone.”“Good. I’ll be right back.”

She went back to the cabin,satatJasonHunt’sdesk,andfound pen, ink, and paper.The note she penned wasshortandtothepoint.

STAYOFFMYLAND.~KateKerrigan

She went back outside

where Trace had begun torope Rube St. James acrosshishorse.“Putthisinhisshirtpocket,”shesaid,passingthefolded note to her son. “Iwant Savannah St. James toknow that it’s me she’sdealingwith.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR

The vaquero stooduncomfortably in the scentedbrass and red velvet interiorof the Emperor Maximilian,his sombrero dangling fromhis brown, rope-scarredhands.

Savannah St. Jamesfrowned. “You mean all ofthem?”“Sí,patrón. They are very

sick.”Savannah’s crimson robe

slid from her crossed thighs,but the vaquero’s news wassoterribleshedidn’tnoticeorcare. “Are you sure?” sheasked, knowing what theanswerwouldbe.“Sí,patrón.Thecowshave

tick fever.” The vaquero

shrugged. “They will die, Ithink.”She kept pushing. “Will

they last longenough for theChisholm?”“Maybe some, patrón. But

you will not be allowed todrivesickcattleonthetrail.Itwill become amatter for theTexas Rangers. You will bestopped and your cows willbeshot.”Savannah rang the bell

beside her, and when her

maid appeared, she said,“Leah, a bourbon.Make it alargeone.”“Mr. Tweng replaced the

cogwheels and repaired thesteam pipe for the icemachine, Miss St. James,”Leahsaid.“How clever of him,”

Savannah said. “Then I’llhave ice with my bourbon.”Shewavedadismissivehandat the vaquero. “Thatwill beallfornow.Iwilldiscussthe

matter of the cattle with mybrotherwhenhegetsback.”The man bowed and left

and Savannah rubbed thetemples of her suddenlythrobbing head. Thevaquero’s news wasdevastating, but Reubenwould find a way out of theunholymess.Healwaysdid.She accepted her drink

fromLeahandsaid,“AskMr.Twengtocomeseeme.”Shefelt the need of someone to

talk to. Leah was available,but she was a domestic andone didn’t confide inservants.Leah nodded and went in

searchofTweng.He appeared shortly,

wearing his hooded leathercoat, closed at the front by arow of eight brass buckles,his round hat, and ever-presentgoggles.Savannahwavedhimintoa

chair. “I have bad news, I’m

afraid.”“Iamdistraught,dearlady.

Pray, what could the matterbe?”Savannah recounted what

the vaquero had told her,then,“Sincethisisamatterofthe greatest moment, I amopentoadvice.”Tweng sat up in the chair.

“Ihavethistooffer.Wemustavoid any involvement withthe Texas Rangers orauthorities of anykind.They

may pry too closely into theorigin of the herd. We can’texplainawaythefactthatweliftedthecattleinMexicoandleft eight or nine deadvaquerosinourwake.”“Indeed,Mr.Tweng.Once

again, you have come to thecrux of the problem,”Savannahsaid.“Butyouoffernosolution.”“Thereisoneanswer.Pick

up and flee north into theterritories.”

“Andspend the restofmylife in poverty? That I willnotdo.”“You could wed,” Tweng

suggested.“Andthatisatypicalmale

solution.Wed?Wedwhat?Apasty bank clerk? An armyofficer, only to find myselfwitheringawayinsomedustyoutpost of civilization?Perhaps you’d wish me tobecome a farmer’s wife,pushing a plow, staring all

dayandeverydayatanox’sass?OrperhapsIcouldwedareverendandhecouldpreachtomeabout theerrorsofmywickedways?”Tweng sat back. “I stand

chastised,MissSt.James.Mysuggestion was ill-considered.”“Ineedaherd,Mr.Tweng.

I must sell it and get out ofthis godforsaken wildernessforever.”“Then you must acquire

another, healthier herd,”Twengsaid.Savannahlookedlikeshe’d

just been slapped. Then sheclapped her hands. “Huzzah!Mr. Tweng, you have comeupwiththeperfectsolution!Iwill talk to Reuben when hereturns and we’ll make ourplans. How wonderfullyclever you are.” She raisedher glass and smiled. “Andthank you for once againmakingmyicepossible.”

Jack Hickam and PeteSlicer found the dead manroped across his horse. Thebigstudgrazedjustahundredyards from the western limitof the cattle herd, a sea ofhideandhorn that seemed togoonforever.Hickam dismounted,

grabbed the corpse by thehair,andyankedupthehead.“Yeah, it’s him all right. It’s

RubeSt.James.”Slicer leaned forward in

the saddle. “Looks like he’sbeenshot,huh?”“A couple times,”Hickam

said.“Butabulletthroughtheheaddoneforhim.”“What’s the paper in his

pocket,Jack?”Slicerexpertlyrolled a cigarette andthumbed amatch into flame.Throughacloudofsmoke,heasked,“Whatdoesitsay?”Hickamtookthepaperand

unfolded it. “It’s got writingonit,Pete.”“Well,readit,”Slicersaid.Hickamshookhishead. “I

don’t have the knack, Pete. Ineverdidlearnhow.”“Thenletmeseeit.”Slicer

scannedthenote.“Lookslikehe was shot by a gal namedKateKerrigan. That’swhat Ireadintoit.”“Must be a rancher

hereabouts.” Hickamgathered the reins of Rube’s

horse and swung into thesaddle. “Well, let’s get thisbacktohiskin.”“I hope this ain’t going to

affectourwages,”Slicersaid.“Rubebeingdeadan’all.”“Savannah has plenty of

money, I reckon,” Hickamsaid. “And if she don’t, thenwe’lltakeitoutintrade.”“Doher,youmean?”“Well, it’s a thought,”

Hickamsaid,grinning.

SavannahSt.James’sgrief

was a terrible thing to see.Racked by sobs, she threwherselfonherbrother’sbodyand screamed and screamed.Herrobehadfallenopenandhis dried blood stained hernaked breasts and belly likerust. “My brother,” sheshrieked. “My friend, mybeloved.”She liftedherheadto theblue,uncaringskyandher screeching cries rang

throughherbaredteeth.Hickam, Slicer, and the

other guns stood in animpotent semicircle aroundthe hysterical woman. Itlooked like they were frozenin place, their staring eyeswide like men who’d justseen a phantom in anabandoned graveyard. EvenMarmaduke Tweng wasshaken to the core and thehand that held his leathergauntletsshook.

Then her tone changed.Her screams became cries ofrage, of the desire forvengeance, of her need tostrikeoutandkill,kill,kill.The face she turned to

Hickamwas amask of fury.Her beautiful featurestwisted,distortedintothefaceofadementeddemon.“Who.. . did . . . this?” Her voicewashollowasafuneraldrum.Hickam, amanwith sand,

felt a surge of horror not

unmixed with fear. “Here,”he said, quickly passing thenotetoSlicer.“Youtellher.”“Somebody tell me!”

Savannahscreamed.Slicer, as affected as the

rest, swallowed hard. “Thenote on your brother’s bodywassignedKateKerrigananditsaidtostayoffherland.”Savannah St. James stood,

heedlessthatherbloodstainedbody was on display underher open robe. “Find her.

Find her and bring her tome.” Distorted by hate,Savannah’sfacewasthestuffofnightmares.“Allofyougoand as you bring her back,use her, use her often andhard.Breakher,Mr.Hickam,break her.” Finally aware ofhernakedness,sheclosedherrobe. “Every ship needs afigureheadandKateKerriganwillbemine.”Shepointedtothe tangle of brass pipes andvalvesabove thedriver’scab

of the Emperor Maximilian.“I will tie her up there andwhenItakepossessionofherland, she will be the first toknow it.Then Iwill kill her.OnlythenwillReuben’ssoulbeatrest.”Suddenly, Marmaduke

Tweng was alarmed. “MissSt. James, hold off on thatplan until I talk to youprivately.”Savannah turned to him,

her eyes glaring. “I have

made up my mind, Mr.Tweng.TheKerriganwomanmustdie.”Tweng tried again. “Just a

few minutes, I pray you.While your brother’s body ispreparedforburial.”Savannah tilted back her

headandscreamed.Then,shegave a shrieking yell. “No! IwillnotlayReubentorestinforeign soil.Mr.Tweng, youwill use one of your infernalmachinestoburnhimandI’ll

carry his ashes to his newhome.”“Yes, yes of course,” the

littleengineer said. “But firstwemusttalk.”Jack Hickam spat. “The

time for talking is done.We’ll ride, Miz St. James,and bring back thatKerriganwoman.”Tweng had spent most of

his life tending totemperamental steamenginesand was thus a patient man

and slow to anger. But hisrage flared, directed atHickam,notSavannah. “Youfool,”hesnapped.“Don’tyouthink the Kerrigan womanwill have her own armedmen? You’re headed into agunfight that you might notwin.Even if you do, it takesonlyonesurvivortobringtheTexas Rangers down on us.From what I’ve been told,theydon’ttakekindlytomenwhoabusewomen. InTexas,

that’sahangingoffense.”“There’s ten of us here,”

Hickam said. “Look at us—me, Slicer, Duke Lake overthere, the rest of them—thefastestgunsmoneycanbuy.Ithink we can take care of afew”—the big man searchedforthemostdemeaningnamehe could use—“waddies.We’ll kill them all. Don’tworryaboutthat.Therewon’tbe any survivors, man,woman,orchild.”

Savannah listened to theexchangeinsilence,staringatthe body of her brother.Finally,sheasked,“Haveyouanything else to say, Mr.Tweng?”“Yes I have, Miss St.

James.” A cloud crossed theface of the sun and a darkshadow raced over thegrassland. “You have tenthousand diseased cattle thatyou can do nothing with.Between now and spring

they’ll drift in all directionsand infect any new herd youmightacquire.”“And your point is?”

Savannah’s eyes never leftRube’sbody.“Mypointisanurgentone.

Use your men to help thevaqueros drive the herd overthe border into Mexico andlet the cattle die off in theChihuahua badlands. Onlythen, turn your attention tokilling the Kerrigan woman

andtakingoverherherd.”“Hell,no,”Hickamsaid.“I

say we get the Kerrigan galfirst.Theherdcanwait.”“Look around you, man!

They’realreadydriftingeast,”Tweng said. “Three of thevaquerosquityesterday.Theydon’t want to be associatedwith sick cows and cattleticks. The vaqueros that areleft can barely hold the herdtogether.Miss St. James, forGod’ssake,usethesemento

drive the cattle into Mexiconowbeforeit’stoolate.”“I say this littlemanhasa

yellow streak,” Hickam said.“Firstwehavesomefunwiththe Kerrigan lady and thentake care of the goddamnedherd.”Savannah was instantly

angry. “Sir! Don’t you dareuse that kind of languagewhilemybrotherliescoldonthe ground! I can’t take theslightestriskonanythingthat

might imperil my future.We’lldoasMr.Twengsays.Revengeisadishbestservedcold,andIcanwaitforafewmoredays.”Hickamwasangry.“Damn

it,lady,we’renotcowpokes.”“I know that, but youwill

be amply rewarded once thisenterprise is concluded. Youhavemywordonthat.”A realization struck her

likeablow.Forthefirsttime,she realized that she no

longer had the protection ofReuben’s fast gun and hisreputation as a man killer.ShesawinHickam’sinsolenteyes that he had becomeawareofthatfactthemomenthefoundherbrother’sbody.Despite her grief, despite

her anger, Savannah knewshe must use her femininewiles.“Mr.Hickam...Jack...dothisformeandI’llbesograteful. I will be in yourdebt.” She smiled. “And I

alwaysrepaywhatIowewithinterest.”Hickam’s eyes explored

thewoman’sbodyandsalivaformed at the corners of hismouth.“Nolimits?”“No limits. None at all. I

needastrongmanatmysidenowthatI’velostReuben.”“Thenwe’lldrive theherd

into Old Mexico,” Hickamsaid. “And when I get back,I’lldemandmydue.”“It will be waiting for

you,”Savannahsaid.One of the guns sneered.

“Andwhatwillbewaitingforthe restofus?Theanswer isnothing.Iain’tgonnanurseabunch o’ cows over theborder unless I get Yankeegoldmoneyinmyhandrightnow.”Thespeakerwasaweasel-

faced youngster with lank,pale hair that fell over thecollar of his shirt. His namewasJimClewiston,somesaid

Crawford,andhismainclaimto a revolver rep was thathe’d shot and killed RedAdams, the Killeen drawfighter. That scrape gaveClewistonafalsesenseofhisown importance and aninflated idea of his shootingskills.Hickam disabused him of

both when he pumped twobulletsintohischest.Gray gun smoke trickled

from Hickam’s Colt as he

looked straight at the rest ofthe gunfighters. “Anybodyelse sayheain’tgonnanurseabuncho’cows?”Hegotnotakers.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE

Kate Kerrigan was wellused to crying babies, butJazmin Salas’s daughter wasthenoisiest she’deverheard,her little facebright redwitha temper tantrum.As Jazminprepared dinner, Kate sat in

herchairbythefire,bouncedthe baby on her knee, andsangtheoldIrishBallyeamonCradleSong as she’d sung itahundredtimesbefore.

“Sleep, sleep,grahmochree,Here on yourmamma’sknee,Angels are

guarding,And theywatch o’erthee.”

Havingnoneofit,thebabystill fussed and bawled.Trace, Quinn, and Cobb hadalready beat a path to thedoor and Dr.Mary Fullertonsuddenly remembered thatshehadsomestudyingtodo.

“The birdeenssing a flutingsong,They sing toyou the wholedaylong.Wee fairiesdanceo’erhillanddaleFor very loveofthee.”

Jazminpushedapotoffthehot plate and said, “I’ll takehernow,Mrs.Kerrigan.”“She just won’t settle.

She’sveryfussy.”“She’shungry.”Jazminsat

opposite Kate, pulled downthe neck of her blouse, andgave the child her breast.Immediately, there was ablessedsilence.

“I really don’t think shelikes the cradle Marco madeforher,”Katesaid.Jazmin shook her head.

“She doesn’t. But he’s veryproud of it, and I don’twanttohurthisfeelings.”The cradle was an oval-

shaped contraption made outofrivetedsteelandbrasspipethat looked like a miniatureironclad. A system of gearsand pulleys allowed thecradle tobe rockedbya foot

pedalandMarcowaslookinginto a way to utilize steampower so that no human hadtobepresent.The baby hated it. Moses

considered it a work of artandwasforeverpolishingthebrass.Kate heard men talking

outsideandsherosefromherchair and walked to thewindow. Because of thedarkness she could see little,butshemadeouttheshapeof

a horseman and heard Franktalk to theman. She steppedoutsidejustasayoung,good-looking man swunggracefullyoutofthesaddle.He sawKate, swept of his

hat, and bowed low. “JohnWesley Hardin at yourservice,ma’am.”“I’mpleased tomakeyour

acquaintance, Mr. Hardin. IamKateKerrigan.”“Unfortunately, Wes is

only passing through,” Cobb

said.“Wekneweachotherinthe past, and I assure you heis a true gentleman of theSouth.”Kate decided to be a little

flirtatious. Her eyelashesfluttering, she said, “Andwhat makes a Southerngentleman,Mr.Hardin?”“What makes any

gentleman, Mrs. Kerrigan?Hemustknowhowtoride,tofence, to shoot, to box, toswim,torow,andtodance.If

attacked by ruffians, agentlemen should be able todefend himself and also todefend ladies from theirinsults.”Kate gave a little curtsy.

“Then I am content to be inyour company, Mr. Hardin.Our home is a humble oneand the dinner prepared isplain in the extreme,butyouarewelcometodinewithus.”Hardin gave another bow.

“Iamhonored,ma’am.Itwill

bemypleasure.”Standing close by, Count

Andropov smiled to himselfin the gloom. It seemed thatQueen Victoria’s influencehad finally reached theUnited States. People of acertain class didn’t converseso much as dance a gracefulminuetwithwords.After dinner and profuse

thanks to Kate, the words

JohnWesleyHardinspoketoFrank Cobb were direct andto the point. “Saw somesights,Frank.Ididn’twanttomention them in front of theladies.”“You see a big herd,

Wes?”“Sure did. It looked like it

was being driven southtowardOldMexico.”“South? You sure about

that?”“That’swhatit lookedlike

to me. Them boys werehaving a time keeping theherdtogether.”“What other sights,Wes?”

Cobbasked.“Maybe we should move

awayfromthecabin,”Hardinsaid.Once they’d put distance

between themselves and thecabinandwereinmoon-lacedshadow,Hardinleanedcloserandsaid,“IneversawthelikebeforeandIain’tlikelytosee

itagain.”Cobb waited until Hardin

tiedintohisstory.“I rode out of some

mesquite and there standinginfrontofmewasamananda woman. The man was alittle feller, dressed realstrange, and he had a leathermask on his face. He washolding what I took to be arifle, a kind of brass thingwith pipes all over it. Thelittle feller had a pack of

some kind on his back,connected to the rifle with aleatherhose.”“Strange kind of rifle,”

Cobbsaid.“Stranger still was what

comeoutofthebarrel.Itshotflame, Frank, streams ofscarletfirelikewatercomingoutofahose.”“My God, what was he

doing with such a thing?Hunting?”“Hell no. He was burning

human bodies, two of them.They’d been stripped andwere charredblack, likehowyou’d see steaks left in thepan for too long. And thestink of burning flesh wasrealbad.Hell,Icanstillsmellit.”Curious, Cobb asked,

“Thenwhathappened?”“Whathappenedwas, they

sawme.”Hardin slapped theColts in their shoulderholsters.“Iwaswearingthese

soIwasn’tscarednone,butIwasspooked,thatfeelingyouget in a graveyard at night,butIdidn’tletitshow.‘Whatare you folks up to?’ says I.And the woman shows methispaintedpotandshesays,‘I’m burning my brother’sbody so I can collect hisashes in this urn and takethem back east for burial.’She points to the other bodyand says, ‘He’s the onewhoshot him. His ashes can lay

wheretheyfall.’”Hardin offered Frank his

cigarcaseandwhenbothmenwere smoking he said, “I’dgive all I own or will everown for one night with thatwoman,Frank.Man,shewasasighttosee.Anyway,Iwaskinda wary of the little maninthemaskwiththefiregun,so I didn’t put any kind ofsuggestiontoher.”“Whatdidyoudo?”“Theydidn’tseeminclined

to talksoIasked if IwasontherighttrailfortheKerriganRanch.Isaidafriendofminewas working there and Iwanted to get reacquainted.The woman pointed the wayand then she said, ‘Tell thatgalKateKerrigan that I’llbecomingforher.’”“Justthat?”Cobbasked.“Ain’titenough?Thelady

looked real mean when shesaidit.”“It don’t make any sense.

The woman who made thethreat isSavannahSt. James,but she’s driving her herdsouth, away from theKerriganRanch.”“Frank, nothing made

sense back there,” Hardinsaid.“Theygotabigcarriage,lookslikeasteamlocomotivewith part of a car attached.But it doesn’t ride on rails.It’sgotsixwheels,eachtallerthanme,twointhefrontandfourattheback.”

“Whatthehellisit?”“Damned if I know. But

it’s a monster.” Hardintouchedhishatbrim.“I’monthe scout, Frank, so I got tobe moving on. I’ll look youupagainsometime.”Hemadetoswingintothesaddle,thenstopped. “Hell I almostforgot. I saw Henry BrownovertoFortDavisway.He’djustkilledamanandwasonedayaheadoftheRangersanda few hours in front of a

hempposseofthedeadman’skin.We got to talking aboutme coming here and he saidforyoutolookoutforhim.”“Henry’s always welcome

at this ranch.” Cobb touchedhis hat brim. “Ride easy,Wes. Itwas good to see youagain.”Hardin swung into the

saddle. “Yeah, and you too,Frank.Youtoo.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIX

TheyoungRurales captainsat his horse on a rise andwatched through his fieldglasses as ten thousand headof cattle passed below him.Theherdseemedtocovertheentire desert, a harsh, aridland dominated by yucca,

creosote, mesquite, andthornbush, hemmed in byhighmountain ranges. Itwasnot cattle country and couldnot sustain such a vastnumber.As far as he could tell,

vaqueros and white menpushed the herd, though thebillowing dust cloudmade itdifficulttotell.Behind the captain was a

ten-mandetail,dressedintheRuralesfieldcostumeofwide

sombreros and crossedammunition belts. Each mancarried a model 1866Winchester and one or morerevolvers.Theywereatough,hard-bitten bunch and morethanamatch for anybanditosouthornorthoftheborder.What hewitnessedwas an

invasionofMexicanterritory,and the captain saw his dutyclear.Theherdmustgobacktowhereithadcomefrom.Thecaptainwavedhismen

forward and led the waydown the rise, his horsekicking up plumes of sandfromthesurfaceoftheslope.Imaginingthathewasdealingwith wayward Texaspunchers, he didn’t reach fortherifleslungonhisback.Itwouldprovetobeafatal

mistake.“Yeah, I see them,” Jack

Hickam said to Pete Slicer.

“Gorounduptheboys.Leavethe vaqueros to drive theherd.” Hickam kneed hishorse forward fifty yards outofthedustandwaitedfortheRurales, his hands on thesaddlehorn.The Mexicans arrived

when the captain drew reinandhisRurales formedup inline behind him. Followingthe lead of their officer, theydidn’t unship theirWinchesters.

“Ah, señor, a good day toyou.” the captain said inperfectEnglish.“And to you,” Hickam

said.“WhatcanIdoforyou,General?”Theofficersmiled.“Alas,I

amamerecaptain.”Hickam grinned, aware

thatSlicerandtheothershadridden up and were behindhim. “Well, a nicely set-upyoung feller like you shouldbeageneral.”

Thecaptain’ssmileslippeda little. “You are mostgracious, señor. It seems thatyou’ve lost your way. Youhave crossed the border intoMexico.”“Well, dang me. Is that a

fact?”Hickamasked.“Yes, it is a fact, señor.

Youmust turnyourherdandreturn to Texas. There isnothingouthereforcattle,nowater or grass. They will alldieveryquick,Ithink.”

Hickam’s grin widened.“Well, see, that’s the plan,general. This is a diseasedherdandwewantthemtodie...asyousay,veryquick.”“Not on Mexican soil.”

Unlike his men, the captainwore a tan-colored uniformtunic with his rank on thecollar. The day was hot anddarkarcsofsweathadformedinhisarmpits.“Iorderyoutoturnthisherd,señor.”“And if I don’t?” Hickam

said.“ThenIwillarrestyouand

take you to Chihuahua Cityfortrial.”Hickamsneered.“Onwhat

charge?”“Anarmed invasionof the

sovereign state of Mexico,señor.Suchanoffensecarriesthepenaltyofdeathbyfiringsquad.”“Well, soldier boy, that

ain’tgonnahappen.”Thecaptainsawitthen,the

fierce, killing light in JackHickam’s eyes. He knew hedidn’t have time to unlimberhisrifleandwentfortheColtin a flap holster on his hip.His fingertips barely touchedleather before Hickam shothimoffhishorse.The surviving guns earned

theirwages.The Rurales line broke

under a barrage of fire.Skilled draw fighters weredeadlyatcloserangeandhalf

the Mexicans were killed inthe first volley. The restmanaged to draw their ownrevolversandreturnfire.Twoof the Texans went down.Slicer, shooting a pair ofColts off the back of hisrearing horse, killed three ofthe Mexicans and Hickamand the others took care oftherest.Dust and gun smoke

drifted across the battlefieldand Hickam let out a rebel

yell that was echoed by acoupleotherguns.Heswungout of the saddle, slid hisWinchester out of the boot,and stepped to the woundedcaptain. The young manraisedahand insupplication,begging for mercy. Hickam,holdingtherifle likeapistol,scattered his brains with asingle shot.He stepped frombodytobody,putthreeofthewoundedout of theirmisery,then slid his rifle back into

theboot.“Vaqueros have lit out,”

Slicer said, nodding in thedirection of a rapidlydiminishingdustcloud to thesouth.“Let ’em. The herd is

already drifting all over theplace. Let ’em die here.”Hickam motioned Slicercloser.“Thetwoofourswhowentdown?”“Bothdead,”Slicersaid.“We shed the blood and

SavannahSt.James takes theprofit.”“Seemslike,Jack.”“Well, it ain’t gonna

happen, lay to that,”Hickamsaid. “I want the woman,sure, but I also want themoneythecattlewillbringinAbilene.”“We have to steal them

first,” Slicer said. “And themoney gets divided amongthoseofuswhoareleft.”“Oh,yeah, that’sgonnabe

thewayofit.”Hickamstaredhard at Slicer. “You don’tlooktoogood,Pete.Thesightof all them deadmen botheryou?”Slicer grimaced. “Belly

hurts bad. Got the taste ofbloodinmymouth.”Hickam’s laughwas cruel.

“Who gets your share of themoney,Pete?”Hickam and the others

returned to the EmperorMaximilian with elevenhorsesandtheweaponsofthedeadRurales.Theirowndeadthey left to rot in the desertsunwiththeMexicans.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN

“So Savannah St. Jamessays she’s coming for me.”KateKerriganmoved aroundthetable.Cobbnodded.“That’swhat

WesHardinjusttoldme.”“And she expects me to

cower in my cabin and waitforher.Isthatit?”“It would seem that way,

Kate.”“Well, she’s got another

thought coming. KateKerrigan cowers fromnobody.” Her little chinstubborn,shesaid,“Theveryidea!”Suddenly,Cobbwaswary.

“Kate . . .what do youhaveinmind?”Mary Fullerton placed her

coffee cup on the saucer.“Frank, aren’t you afraid toask?”Cobb looked from her to

Kate and back to Mary. “Isuream.”“Well,afraidornot,here’s

my answer. I’m going out tomeet thatyoung ladyandI’llsay, ‘Well, here I am. Whatare you going to do aboutit?’”No surprise there, Cobb

thought. “No, Kate. That’s a

good way to get yourselfkilled.”“It’s also a good way of

showingMiss St. James thatI’m not afraid of her or herhired gunmen,” Kate saidstubbornly.“I can’t let you do that,

Kate,”Cobbsaid.Mary’s eyes grew wide.

“Ohdear.”“Frank, don’t ever tell me

whatIcanandcannotdo.Mymind ismade up and there’s

an end to it. I will hear nomore.” Kate glared at Mary.“And that includes you, Dr.Fullerton.”Mary raised her teacup to

her lips and smiled into therim.“I’mnotsayingaword.”“Atleastletmecomewith

you,”Cobbsaid.Kate shookherhead. “No,

Frank. It’s all too obviousthat you are a man wellpracticedwith the revolver. Iintend to use words, not

bullets. But I’ll take Mosewith me if that makes youfeelbetter.”TraceKerrigancrumbleda

sugar cookie in his fingersandwatchedthecrumbsdroponto his plate. Withoutlookingup,hesaid,“Ma,thiswillbe settledbybullets,notwords.”Katesmiled.“CantheIrish

notcharmthebirdsoutofthetrees? I thinkMissSt. Jameswilllistentoreason.”

“And if she doesn’t?”Cobbasked.Not giving an inch, Kate

said, “Frank, let’s not buildhouses on a bridge wehaven’tcrossedyet.”Kate drew rein under a

blueskyasthemorningcamein clean and the sun alreadyburned like a gold coin.Around her and Moses, thegrasslandsstretchedintohazy

distance. She put a spyglassto her eye and scanned thelandahead.“Mose,Iseetentsand the great steammachineMr.Hardinmentioned. But Isee no cattle. Where is theherd?”“I don’t know, Miz

Kerrigan.It’sgone.”“I know it’s gone, Mose,

butgonewhere?”Moses shook his head and

saidnothing.“Well, let’s talkwithMiss

St. James. I’m sure she cansolvethemystery.”Unconvinced, Moses said,

“Miz Kerrigan, I don’t thinkweshoulddothis,no.”“Keep your revolver

handy, Mose. Words havebeen known to fail.” Shethought about taking herHenry from the boot butdecided that could beconstrued as downrightunsociable. She left the riflealone and kneed her horse

forward.Kate wore her English

riding habit, a top hat withgreengauzearoundthecrownand on her left shoulder asmall enamel brooch thatdisplayed the ancientKerrigancrestandmotto,MyGod,My King, My Country.She decided, wrongly as itturned out, that her costumewas more than a match foranythingSavannahSt. Jamesmightwear.

As Kate and Moses rode

closer, five men left theirtents and watched them. Allwore a gun like they wereborntoit.Katedrewreinandsaid in

asacommandingvoiceasshecould muster, “My name isKate Kerrigan. I’m here tospeaktothewomanwhocallsherselfSavannahSt.James.”Pete Slicer, very ill, his

faceashen,gavea littlebow.“That can be arranged,ma’am. If you’ll just set andbideawhile.”That was unnecessary. A

door of the EmperorMaximilian opened andSavannah stood in thedoorway. Beside her, KateheardMoses’ssharpintakeofbreath.Thewomanwore an over-

the-bust corset of fine redleather, cinched at the waist

with six straps on each side,fastened with ornate bronzebuckles. From one of thelower straps hung a goldpocket watch. Her blackboots reached to the middleof her thighs and weredecorated with metalbutterflies. In her left hand,she carried a riding crop, inthe other a Remingtonderringer,engravedandgold-plated. She spoke to Slicer.“Whoisthisperson?”

“My name is Mrs. KateKerrigan. I know yours andjudging by the goods youhave on show, I know whatyou are.” Kate smiledsweetly.“You are most gracious,

Mrs.Kerrigan.Ormay I callyouKate?”“Please do. Come

anywhere nearmy ranch andI’ll kill you . . . ah,Savannah.”“Not before I tear your

eyes out, my dear. May Iofferyoutea?”“That would be nice. I’d

like to poison yours, youknow.”“And Iyours. Is oolong to

yourtaste?”“You’re a trollop,

Savannah,andyoudress likea jezebel. Why yes, oolongwouldbedivine.”“Then please come inside,

but do trip and break yourdamned neck, por favor,”

Savannahsaid,smiling.Kate dismounted and

steppedintotheEmperor.Alargemansprawledona

leather couch gave her aninsolentgrin.“SothisisKateKerrigan? I reckon one daysoon I’ll have some funwithyou.”“Get out, Jack,” Savannah

ordered.Hickam scowled. “That’s

nowaytotalkto—”“Getout,Isaid.We’llpick

upwhereweleftofflater.”With an ill grace, Hickam

rose, slipped his suspendersover his shoulders, andpicked up his hat and gunbelt. “I’m leaving,but I’llbeback.”“Jack, Mrs. Kerrigan

consorts with Negroes. Seethattheoneoutsidegetsacupof coffee or something.”After the big man left,Savannah said, “Please sit,Kate,thoughasarule,Idon’t

allowtheIrishanywherenearmy table.” She motioned tothe urn on the table. “Youdon’t mind if my brotherReubenjoinsus?Hedidlovetakingteawiththeladies.”“Youaremostkindtoask,

Savannah.Idon’tmindatall,but what a sorry piece ofwhitetrashyouare.”Savannah rang a bell and

whenhermaidappeared, shesaid, “Tea for two, Leah.Oolong if you please, but

don’tusethebestchina.”Afterthemaidcurtsiedand

left, Kate said, “I love yourperfume, Savannah. French,isn’t it? I know it’s usedmostlyby thosewhoworkatnight.”“Then youmust try some,

Kate.”Savannahrangthebellagain. “Leah, the Eau deMinuitplease.Iknowit’sthecheap stuff, but my guestwon’tknowthedifference.”Leah curtsied, left, and

quickly returned with theperfume.Savannah dabbed it onto

Kate’s neck. “There, justwherethepulseis,mydear.Itbringsoutthemuskybouquetandsmellsheavenlyonyou.Iso look forward to putting ahemp noose around thatpretty neck and hearing itgo”—shesnappedherfingers—“snap!”Kate sniffed. “Really? I

don’t likethisperfumeatall,

Savannah. Itmakesmesmelllikeyou,acheapwoman.Ah,here is Leah with the tea, atlast.”Savannah poised sugar

tongs over Kate’s cup. “Onelump or two? Why did youkillmybrother?”“Justone,Savannah,thank

you. Because he was alowlifewhotriedtorapeme.”“Do make a trial of the

oolong, my dear,” Savannahsaid. “I value your opinion.

And Leah’s sponge cake issimply delicious. As thoughanyone could rape aredheaded Irish trollop likeyou. How many men haveyou had, Kate? Dozens?Scores? No doubt, you toldReuben it was available andyoukilledhimwhenhe triedto get at it. Ah, how is thespongecake?”Katekeptupherendofthe

conversation. “Almost asgood as my own. You are a

most thoughtful host. Yourbrother was an animal,Savannah.Heneededkilling.Bytheway,theoolongisjustperfect.”“I’m told that oolong

comes all the way fromCathay and that its namemeans Black Dragon. Isn’tthat most interesting? I’mgoing to kill you, Kate, andtake everything that’s yours.But not today, my dear.Revengeisadishbestserved

cold,andI’llcomewhenyouleastexpectit.Moretea?”“Please. From this day

forward, I’ll always expectyou,Savannah.”“Let me add sugar for

you,”Savannah said. “There,one lump. Perhaps if youhadn’t murdered my brother,I might have taken just yourherd. But now that’s quiteimpossible. You must die,dearKate.”“May Ihaveanotherpiece

ofspongecake?”Kateasked.“Pleasedo. I like towatch

the crumbs fall from yourmouth.”“You are most generous,

Savannah. Where is yourherd?”“Gone.” Savannah waved

an elegant hand. “InMexicosomewhere. The cattle werediseasedandfewwouldhavelasted through the comingwinter.Ofcourse,thatiswhyI’mtakingyours.”

Kate took a sip from hercup. “The tea is mostenjoyable. So you’re a thiefaswellasatrollop.”“You’re most welcome,

Kate. Do you know thatyou’re trespassing on myland? You’re a commonsquatter. Pray, do you hennayourhairthatcolor?”“It’s my natural red,

Savannah. Of course, youwear a wig, don’t you? Andhow can I squat on open

range?”“Because,my dear, I have

a land grant from the lateEmperor Maximilian ofMexico giving me all therange between the Pecos andthebig forkof theSanSaba.It’s all quite legal, I assureyou. And no, I don’t wear awig,butI’musedtothepettyjealousiesofenviouswomen.Can’t I tempt you to moretea?”“No. I must be going. A

Mexican land grant isworthless in the state ofTexas. Doesn’t such a tightcorsetpinchyour fatwhen itpushes your bosoms up likethat?”“I know the grant is

worthless,butbeforeyoucancontest it, the spring will behere and I’ll be gone withyour cattle. And by then,you’llbedead.No,thecorsetis quite comfortable, thoughflat-chested women like you

may find it hard tounderstand.”Kate rose to her feet.

“Well, Savannah, thank youfor the lovely tea and I lookforwardtoournextmeeting.Idoubt we’ll be so friendlythen.”Savannah glanced out the

window. “A mist is comingdown,Kate.Areyousureyoudon’twant to stay for dinnerandspendthenight?IbelieveLeah has prepared a potato

dish. Isn’t that what poorIrishpeasantseat?”“Onceagain,youaremost

gracious, Savannah, but Iwon’t spend the night in abrothel.”Savannah glanced at the

watch attached to her corset.“La, how time flies, evenwhenoneisbored.”Sheranga bell and when Leahpromptly appeared, said,“Mrs. Kerrigan is leaving.Makesureyouwashthecups

well.” She smiled at Kate.“I’llseeyoutothedoor.”Kate stepped outside.

Moses still sat his horse andthemist,grayasaghost,roseto the animal’s belly. Therewas no sign of Hickam andthe other guns, though sheheard ribald laughter fromoneofthetents.Moses dismounted and

assistedKateintothesaddle.“Next time we meet, I’ll

kill you, Kate,” Savannah

said. “Now please ridecarefully. One just can’t tellwhat dangersmay be hiddeninafog.”“People have tried to kill

mebefore, but I’m still here,Savannah.”“Then I’ll succeed where

othershavefailed.”Savannahsaid to Moses, “Guard yourmistresswell,boy.Herlifeisveryimportanttome.”Kate looked beyond the

womanandsawHickamwalk

toward them. “Your malefriend is coming, Savannah.Hemustmissyou.”For a moment, Savannah

St. James dropped her flintyfaçade and seemed almostdejected.“Hewantsmybodyandwhat Icangivehim.Allmy life, I’ve sold myself togentlemen, and now I mustgive it freely to a sweating,stinking hog.” She smiled.“Your death is costing medearly,KateKerrigan.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-EIGHT

Moses Rice wasconcerned. “Mist is gettingthicker,MizKerrigan.Ican’tseenofartherthanmyhoss’sears.”“Are we still headed east,

Mose?”Katesaid,ashadowy

figureinthemurk.“I got no way of telling.

Even the hosses don’t knowwhichway iswhich.”Moseslookedaroundhim.“Itsureisquietthough.”“I’venever seena fog this

thick. We’ll find a place toshelter until it drifts away.It’sgoingtobedarksoon,sothe sooner we stop thebetter.”“Miz Kerrigan, this is flat

country.Thereain’taplaceto

shelter,no,”Mosessaid.“Allwe can do is git off’n thesehosses and sit right wherewe’re at. I’d surehate to fallintoaravineorsomesuch.”Although Mose couldn’t

see her, Kate nodded.“Dismount,Mose.We’llwaititout.”She and Moses sat

together, holding the reins oftheir horses. Visibility wasdowntoafewyards.Withnowind, the mist just hung

there,unmoving,surroundingthem like mother-of-pearlwalls.The deathly quiet made

Moseswhisper,“Icouldsureuseacupofcoffee.”“Didn’t theyofferyouone

attheSt.Jamesplace?”“No, ma’am. That big

feller said he wouldn’t givecoffee to a nigger man. It’swhat he said, all right. Leftme there with no coffee.Mademefeelbad.”

Kate felt a surge ofsympathy. “Mose, when wegethomeyoucanhaveallthecoffeeyouwant.”“And them sugar cookies

thatMizSalasbakes,huh?”“Allyoucaneat.”“Thendang,MizKerrigan,

Isurewishthisfogwouldliftinahurry.”The mist was so thick

Moses couldn’t see Kate’ssmile.Ten minutes later, like a

fireflyinthemist,Katesawalanternbobbingtowardthem.“I see it, Miz Kerrigan,”

Mosessaid,hiseyesroundascoins. “I got my revolverready.”Kate stood and slid her

Henryfromtheboot.Fingersof fog clutched at her.Despite themurk, coyotes inthe distance yipped theirhunger,huntingbysmell.“See anything?” Moses

askedquietly.

“Only the lamp. It’scomingstraighttowardus.”“Evilthingsinthefog,Miz

Kerrigan.Thingsthatain’tforgoodChristianfolkstosee.”“I think we’ll see them

soon enough, Mose.” Katewaited until the lantern drewcloser and was transformedfrom a firefly into a halo oforange light, then yelled,“Halt!Whogoes there?”Sheturned toMoses. “Silly thingtosay,huh?”

She was answered almostimmediately. “My name isMarmadukeTwengandI’masteamengineer.Ihaveamanwithme.”“Whoishe?”Katecalled.“Just a sickly fellow

lookingforaprivatespacetokillhimself.”“Comeon in and don’t let

meseeyouwithaguninyourhand,”Kateordered.Another man’s voice

spoke.“Lady,inthisfog,you

couldn’t see a fallen star inmy hand. Name’s PeteSlicer.”Kate was alarmed. “Are

you one of Savannah St.James’sgunmen?”“I was. Now I’m just

lookingforaplacetodie.”“Well, you’ve chosen the

rightspot,”Katesaid.“Comeinslow.”The light bobbed closer

and then the mist parted toreveal a small, gnome-like

man in a leather coat and atop hat with goggles on thefrontofthecrown.Hecarrieda lantern at the end of awillowbranchthatbentunderthe weight. Beside him, PeteSlicer stoodbyhishorse, thereinsinhisgunhand.Slicerbowed.“I’msorryto

intrude, ma’am. But wedidn’t expect to meet fellowtravelersinthefog.”“Earlier IwasatSavannah

St. James’s locomotive . . .

whateveryouwishtocallit.Ibelieveyousawmethere.”“I don’t doubt it,” Slicer

said.“Ihavebeensickinmytentfromacancerdeepinmybelly.Thepainhasgotten sobadI’vedecidedtoendit.”“I told Mr. Slicer that

because of the EmperorMaximilian ’s tendency tobog down in places, I knowthe lay of the land aroundthese parts,” Tweng said. “Iofferedtofindhimasuitable

place to self-destruct andpromisedtosayaprayeroverhisremains.”Kate was skeptical. “Did

Savannah order you to dothis?”“Oh dear, no. Miss St.

James has no hold over me.I’m an engineer. I plan tobuild a steam-engine flyingmachine that could havecarriedMr.Slicerandmyselfabove the fog, but I haven’tperfected it yet. Thus, we

were forced to set out onfoot.”TwengturnedtoSlicer.“Shall we continue on ourquest?” He consulted thehuge iron watch that hungaround his neck. “It’s almostmidnight. Tempus fugit andallthat.”“Mr. Slicer, you are no

friendofmine,but Iwillnotsee a man, even an enemy,blow his own brains out.There is a fine doctor at myranch. Let Dr. Fullerton

examine you before youmakeafinaldecision.”Slicer nodded. “That is

most thoughtful, ma’am, butI’m afraid it’s too late. Thecancerhastakenitscourse.”“Let the doctor determine

that. If she says the cancerhas no cure, then you canscatter your brains with myblessing,Mr.Slicer.”Tweng smiled a wispy

smile. “One of the greatpleasuresinmylifeistomeet

intelligentwomen.What yousay makes a great deal ofsense,Mrs.Kerrigan. I toyedwith the ideaofoperatingonthe patient while he wasunder the influence ofmorphine, replacing hiscancerous stomach with onemade of bronze and glass. Icalculated the valves andcogwheel gearing, but thepower source still eludesme.Howdoes onemake a steamengine the size of a silver

dollar? And what aboutproper lubrication andmaintenance?” He shook hishead.“FornowIimploreyouto give the doctor a try,Mr.Slicer. You have nothing tolose.”Kate frowned. “You

mentioned my name, Mr.Tweng.Doyouknowme?”“Wehaven’tbeenformally

introduced, dear lady, but Iprovided the steam thatwarmed the water for your

tea. Miss St. James hasspoken of you often, Mrs.Kerrigan, and I fear shemeansyouill.”“She’s made that pretty

obvious,”Katemuttered.SheturnedtoSlicer.“What’syourdecision,Mr.Slicer?”“When the fog lifts, if I’m

still breathing, I’d like to beexaminedbyyourdoctor.”Marmaduke Tweng

clapped his gloved hands.“Excellent! And now on a

more pleasant note I havehere”—he reached into thepocket of his leather coat—“an excellent bottle ofcider of my own making, adelightfulcombinationofripeCaliforniaapplesandasteampress. I suggest we all sitdownandenjoythisnectar.”“Not for me,” Slicer said.

“Drinkinghurtsmybelly.”“Giveme thebottle,”Kate

Kerrigan said, reachingout ahand.“AfterthedayI’vehad,

Icouldsureuseadrink.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-NINE

Intheafterglowofhiswildmattress time with SavannahSt. James, Jack Hickamaccepted her order that hecheck on theHunt cattle andsearchthehouseforanythingofvalue.Afterthat,hewasto

burn all the ranch buildingsso that Kate Kerrigan wouldnot have a refuge should shebybadluckescapetheinitialslaughteratherplace.“Leave the herd where it

is,”Savannahsaid.“Wecan’ttake a chance on the grassaround here. It’s probablycoveredinticks.”Hickammerelytouchedhis

hatbrimandnodded.“I’llbeback.Ihopeyou’llbelookingforme.”

With practiced ease,Savannah smiled. “Of courseIwill, big boy. I’ll count thehours.”Like hell I will, you filthy,

ruttinghog.Thefogclearedjustbefore

sunup and the morning lightthat showed the way to theKerrigan Ranch also lit thetrail forHickamandhis fourremaininggunhands.

It was way down in thesummerand thesunwas lesshot, the longgrass beginningto recapture its greenness.The sky was blue as anupturned Wedgwood bowland the air, washed clean bythe night’s mist, smelled ofpiñón and late bloomingwildflowers.Hickam noticed none of

these things. His intent starewasconcentratedon themanwho stood outside the Hunt

ranchhouse,watchinghim.WhenHickam rodewithin

hailing distance, the mangrinnedandcalledout,“Jack,my ver’ good fren’. Howgooditistoseeyouagain.”The man was a large

Mexican, his sombreropushed back on his head. Ayellowbandanawornoverhisblack ringletswas tied at thenape of his neck. He wasdressedinthebrocadedfineryofawell-to-dovaquero.Two

pearl-handed Colts rode hiships and a wallet-sizedpaintingonmetalof theholyVirginofGuadalupehungbya thick steel chain from hisneck.Hickam drew rein.

“Surprised to see you here,Arturo. I heard the Ruraleshadstrungyouupinthetownsquare at Veracruz. I heardyoudiedlikeapig.”Arturo Baxa’s grin

widened. “Then you heard

wrong, my fren’.” Heshrugged.“ForhereIamwithmycompadres.”Hewavedtothe half dozen men standingbehindhim,theirhandsclosetotheirholsteredguns.”Hickam nodded. “I see

Gustavo Oliveros skulkingthere. Heard you robbed abank down Uvalde way lastmonth,Gustavo, and killed awoman teller. She had fouryoung niños, or so I wastold.”

Oliveros was a tall thinman with dead eyes. “HowcomeIhaven’tkilledyoubynow,Jack?ThatisasituationI must remedy as soon aspossible.”“Come, come,”Baxa said.

“There is no need for harshwords.Weareall compadreshere,brothersunder theskin.Isthatnotso,Jack?”“Whateveryousay,Arturo.

Whyareyouhere?”“Cattle, mi amigo. Here

there are cows for the takingand I will drive them acrossthe border and sell them inChihuahuaorPiedrasNegras,maybeso.”“The cows are mine,

Arturo.” Hickam ordered hismentodismount.“Ah,perhapsamistakehas

beenmade,”Baxasaidafterawhile.“Youmadeit,Arturo.”TheMexicanthoughtabout

that.Afterafewmoments,he

said, “Half, Jack. I will takehalf the cows, and then, asalways, we part buenosamigos.”Hickam shook his head.

“No deal, Arturo. The cattlestayrighthere.”Baxa spat into the dirt.

“Jack,youaremakingArturoveryangry.Youarehisgoodfren’ and he doesn’t wish tobe angry with you. We areboth banditos, are we not? Iwill take just two hundred

cows.“You will take nothing,

amigo,” Hickam said. “Nowyou and your boys git onthemhorsesandride.”For a moment, it looked

likeArturoBaxawouldbackdown.Hemadeahalfturnasthoughhewasabouttospeaktohismen,butthenhishandsdivedforhisguns.Jack Hickamwas way too

fast.Hesawthemetalplaqueon Baxa’s chest jump as his

bulletwentthroughit.Thenaball burned across his rightshoulder and a secondcracked close to his ear asOliverosfiredathim.Hickamswung on the man but thefour draw fighters wereshooting and the Mexicanwentdown.Thegunmenkeptup a steady fire, their triggercadenceasfastandregularasa snare drum in a regimentalband. The tune they playedwas death and before the

smoke cleared six men laydead on the ground andArturo Baxa was dying. Theonly casualty on theAmerican sidewasHickam’sburnedshoulder.Hickam stepped to Baxa

and lookeddownat theman,but the Mexican seemed nottonotice.Heheld theplaquetohis face and stared at it instrange disappointment.Hickam’sball hadput aneathole through the Virgin of

Guadalupe.BaxalookedupatHickam and an increduloussmile touched hisbloodstained lips. Then hefellbackanddied.“You’re hit, Jack,” one of

thegunmensaid.“It’s a scratch. Round up

their horses and guns.”Hickamgrinned.“Hell,atthisratewe’re gonna get rich offdead Messkins.” He lookedaround at his gunmen.“Anybodyseeacow?”

“Idid,”amansaid.“Howdiditlook?”Hickam

asked.Themanshrugged.“Likea

cow.”“Good, then we’ve

inspectedtheherd.Nowwe’llburn thisplace to thegroundand throw Arturo and hisboys into the fire. We ain’tgot time to bury a bunch ofdamngreasers.”

CHAPTERFORTY

“You don’t have stomachcancer,Mr.Slicer,”Dr.MaryFullerton said. “You have ableeding ulcer that’s very faradvanced.”Pete Slicer’s face showed

reliefandanxiety.“Andwhatdoesthatmean,Doc?”

“It means you’re going tohavetochangeyourbehaviorif you expect any kind ofcure.Whatdoyoueat?”Slicershrugged.“Whatever

Icanget.”“Bacon and beans. Greasy

stews.Burnedsteaks?”“Yup,allo’them.”“Alcohol?”“Sure. Whiskey, rum, gin,

beer, whatever is available.Saloons ain’t always well-stocked.”

“And you smoke?” Dr.Fullertonaskedpointedly.“Cigars, cigarettes, a pipe,

whatever—”“Isavailable.Yes,Iknow.”

Thedoctor’slovelyfacegrewstern. “All that ends of rightnow,Mr.Slicer.Nosmoking,no drinking, and you willwatchyourdiet.”Slicer grinned. “And if I

don’t?”“If theulcer isuntreated it

cancauseseverebleedingand

such a hemorrhage can befatal. An ulcer can also turncancerous. Thatwill kill youmore slowly but much morepainfully.” Dr. Fullertonsmiled. “Do I make myselfperfectlyclear?”Slicer swallowed hard.

“WhatdoIdo,Doc?”“I already told you Mr.

Slicer.Nosmoking,drinking,orunhealthyfood.”“Hell,Doc,whatdo I eat?

Begging your pardon formy

language.”“I’ll make up a diet sheet

foryouandyoumuststicktoit. Soft boiled eggs with alittletoast,oatmeal—”“YoumeanthestuffIfeed

myhoss?”“Madewithwaterandsalt,

oatmealisquitetastyandyoucan add milk if you like.Cornmeal mush, custards,plain boiled rice, chickenbrothcookedwithoutskin...it’sallonthedietsheet.And

one other thing, Mr. Slicer,youmustavoidallworryandanxiety.”Slicer was incredulous.

“Doctor, I sell my gun. Youknowhowworrisome it is todraw down on a man andwonderifhe’sfinallytheonethat’shalf a second fasteronthedrawthanme?”“If youwish your ulcer to

heal, then you must avoidthose situations,” Dr.Fullerton said. “One thing

more.Onceyoustopdrinkingand eat properly you’ll loseweight, and that is never abadthing.”Shesmiled.“Thatwillbetwodollars.I’dliketoseeyouagaininaweek.”“Doc,you’retheonlything

standing between me anddeath,” Slicer said. “I’m notgoinganywhere.WherecanIfindacoupleboiledeggs?”

“Isupposehe’squitegood-looking ina roughand readysort of way,” Kate Kerrigansaidtoherfriend.“He’s a patient, Kate.

That’s all,” Mary Fullertonsaid. “And he’s one ofSavannah St. James’s men,remember.”“The way he’s been

mooning around yoursurgery, it seems that Mr.Slicer has turned a new leaf.NotthatItrusthim.”

“Slicer, I don’t trust you,”

Cobbsaid.“AndwhenIdon’ttrust a man, bad things canhappen.”“Hell,Frank, I’mnoteven

wearingagun.DocFullertonsaid I have to give uprevolver fighting until myulcer heals.” He took out alarge bronze pocket watchthat he’d bought fromCountAndropov. He consulted the

time. “I’ve been on a specialdiet now for . . . forty-fiveminutes.”“Howmanymenhaveyou

killed,Pete?”Cobbasked.“Too many. Let it go at

that.”“I don’t want you around

here. I want you far awayfromtheKerriganRanch.”“That’snothowit’sgonna

be, Frank. I’m staying closeto the doctor. She’s the onlyonethatcansaveme.”

“If I decide to kill you,Pete, Mary won’t be able tosaveyou.”“I’m not gonna fight you,

Frank.” Slicer’s face twistedinpain.“Nowyou’remakingme nervous and my ulcer isstartingtohurt.DocFullertonsaid that’s what wouldhappen.”Cobbshookhishead.“You

don’t have a nerve in yourbody,Pete.Nowlistenuprealgood because here’s how

hard times could come downon you. You make any kindof move against KateKerrigan, I’ll kill you.Makeanykindofmoveagainstanymemberofherfamily,I’llkillyou.Makeanykindofmove—”“I get the picture, Frank,”

Slicer said, irritated. “I don’tintend to make any kind ofmoveagainstanybody.”“Then see you keep that

picture in your head, Pete.

I’mnotapatientorforgivingman.”“You won’t catch me

wearingagun,”Slicersaid.“Idon’tcare,Pete.Gunor

no gun, I’ll kill you just thesame.”“Frank, I saw you talking

withPeteSlicer,”Katesaid.“Just passing the time of

day,Kate.”“You don’t lie very well,

Frank. I can see it in youreyes.”“I don’t trust him,” Cobb

said. “He hired on as a gunwithSavannahSt. Jamesandhe runswith JackHickam, amanevenmeanerthanheis.”Kate changed the subject.

“I want to talk to you aboutsomething,Frank.”“Does itconcernSlicer? If

itdoes,I’ll—”“No, it’s not about Slicer.

It’s about us, all the people

hereat the ranch.Howmanygunmen does Savannah St.Jameshave?”“I don’t know. But I

reckon what she has are thebest.”“Andwhodowehave?”Cobb hesitated only a

moment. “Me. Trace is goodwith a rifle and he’ll stand.We can depend on MosesRice and in a pinch CountAndropov, even though he’sas crazy as a bedbug. Quinn

is young, but he can shootpretty good. And there’sMarcoSalas,buthe’snotgunsavvy.”“And me,” Kate pointed

out.“And you. But I’d rather

keepyououtofit.”“Ifmysonsareinthefight,

I’llberightwiththem.Dowestand a chance against hiredguns,Frank?”“No.”“Thenwhatdowedo?”

“You won’t like myanswer,Kate.”“Tryme.”“Savannah St. James will

be gone come next spring,”Cobbsaid.Wepullout,allofus,andwinterinSanAntone.Then,intheearlysummer—”“We come back and start

alloveragain.”“Yeah.That’swhatwedo,

Kate.”“Turn tail and run.” She

didn’tlikeitonebit.

“That’s thewayof it.Hurtpride,butstillaboveground.”“Iwon’tdoit.Iwon’tcuta

hole in the wind, runningaway from what’s mine. I’llstay right here on my ownground and fight, even if it’sjustmeandmysons.”“That’s a helluva thing to

saytome,Kate.”She lowered her head, not

wantingFranktoseethetearsinhereyes.“Iknowitis.AndI’m sorry, Frank. I didn’t

meanawordofit.”Cobb lifted up her chin

with his bent forefinger.“We’ll stick together andwe’llgetthroughthis,Kate.”Katerubbedhertearsaway

with the back of her hand.“It’sthewaitingthat’sgettingto me. Having to standhelplessly by until SavannahSt.Jamesdecidestomakehernextmove.”“She’llcomesoonandthen

onewayoranother itwillbe

over.”“When the smoke clears,

we’ll be the ones stillstanding.Won’twe Frank? Ineedyoutotellmethatwe’llallbealive.”Cobb nodded. But he

didn’tsayaword.

BOOKTHREE

TheReckoning

CHAPTERFORTY-ONE

HackRivettehadmurderedthree people since FrankCobb had run him off theKerrigan Ranch. He waslying on his belly on thegrass, contemplating killinganother.The big man who went in

and out the door of thestrange steam carriageseemed to be the bull of thewoods. And the way theshapelywoman in the scarletrobe fawned on himconfirmedthatimpression.The woman herself made

Rivette’s mouth water. Hisneedswerefewandsimple—he wanted the woman in thescarlet robeandall thatwentalongwithher.The money he’d netted

fromkilling thepreacherandhis wife up near Fort Worthwas all spent. In JohnsonCounty,he’dshotasodbusteroff his horse and found justeighty cents in his pockets.He’dlatersoldthehorsetoaslaughterer for five dollars.Hard times all right. ButRivette figured things wereshapingup.He rose and untied his

horse from a mesquite bush.He dusted himself off and

climbed into the saddle. Itwas time to make his moveand whatever came nextcould only be a change forthebetter.

Apistol fighter looking forwork? Jack Hickam watchedthe big man ride closer anddecided that was the case.Badtimeswerecomingdownall over West Texas and

Reconstruction had cast up atide of flotsam and jetsam.The huge, uncurried brutewith the belt gun wasobviouslyoneofthem.A careful man, Hickam

calledouthisboysandwaitedfortheridertogetcloser.Hespoke when the rider reinedin.“Howdy,”Rivette nodded, not liking

what he saw.Hell, does thispart of Texas grow nothingbutdrawfighters?

“Looking for work?Name’s Jack Hickam. I dothehiringaroundhere.”Hell’sfire,morebadnews.

Jack Hickam had a big repandwasaguntobereckonedwith. Rivette decided he’dbetter back up and talkpretties.“Yes,sir,lookingforwork.” He grinned. “TheycallmeHackRivetteandI’vebeen riding thegrub line thispast three-month. I’m feelingmightygaunt.”

Hickam’s eyes flicked totheColtonthebigman’ship.Itwaswell cared for,with along Texas barrel andexpensive leather. “You’recarrying iron, Mr. Rivette.Canyoudoanythingwithit?”“Iget by,”Rivette said. “I

was fast enough to put thecrawl on Frank Cobb a spellback.”Hickam shook his head.

“Neverheardofthegent.”“He’sagun.Oratleasthe

thinksheis.”“Plenty of them around.”

Hickam nodded, making uphismind.“Lightandset.Twohundreddollarswhen the jobis done. There’s bacon andbeans in the pot over by thetentsandhorselines.”“What’s the job?” Rivette

asked.“You’ll find out soon

enough.”

“I saw him through thewindow and didn’t like thelook of him. Is he to betrusted?”SavannahSt.JamesaskedHickam.“Yeah, I think he’s to be

trusted,andifyoudidn’tlikethe look of him neither willKate Kerrigan. With all thathairandbeard,he’dscareanywoman. Besides, if he don’tworkout,I’llkillhim.”He and Savannah lay in

bed, a foldout cot that

doubledasasofa.Nakedasaseal, her hair damp withsweat,Savannahwatched therise and fall of Hickam’shairychestashebreathedandshe smelled the rank odor ofthe man. Marmaduke Twenghadconstructedanetworkofjointedsteampipesunderthemattress to heat the bed inwinter. But in the waningdaysofsummertheywerenotneeded. The interior of theEmperorMaximilianwashot

and close and Savannah wasirritable.“I’ve reached a decision,”

shesaid.“What’s that?” Hickam

asked.“Kate Kerrigan has lived

long enough. I’m going toendit.”“Just set theday.”Hickam

grinned. “I’m lookingforwardtoit.”Savannah’s armswaved in

the air like snakes. “Yesss!

Westrikeandthenthere’snomore prissy, stuck-up Mrs.Kerrigan and her spawn. I’msure she dyes her hair, youknow.”Hickam leaned up on an

elbow. “When do we go,Savannah?”“Sunday. I’m sure we can

catch her on her kneespraying and that is just soexquisite. Then she’s allyours,Jack.”“Twodaysfromnow.That

sets just fine with me. Youwon’t be jealous if you seemeuseanotherwoman?”“Notsolongasyoukillher

afterward.”“You got no worries on

that score.” Hickam flexedthethumbsandfingersofhishuge hands. “Just leave thattome.”Savannah smiled. “That’s

why I love you so much,Jack. You’re so . . . somasterful.”

CHAPTERFORTY-TWO

Moses Rice saw KateKerriganinthelittlecemeteryon the rise behind the cabinand was troubled. She stoodverystillandstaredwest,herredhairandbrightgreenskirtstreaminginthehighwind.Terrible dreams had

disturbed Moses’s sleep thelast few nights and he’dwakenedinthedarknessverymuch afraid, the dying coalsof Marco Salas’s forgecasting a scarlet hell-lightaround him. Should he tellMiz Kerrigan that in hisdream, he’d seen her deadbody and the bodies of herchildren and that the wheelsof a great machine thatbelched steam crushed themintotheground?Ithadbeena

dreadfuldream.Moses stood undecided

about what to do. MizKerriganwas stillon the riseandmaybe she shouldknow.She had the gift, as he did,but maybe her dreams weremorepleasantandthatwouldreassurehim.Hismindmadeup,hewalkedtowardtherise.Hehad thereassuringweightof the Colt’s Dragoon in hiswaistband and the whiteclouds that scudded across

the blue sky were a goodsign. But still, he carried aheavy burden and thememory of the dreams gavehimnopeace.Kate heard footsteps

behind her. She turned andsmiled. “Mose,what are youdoinguphere?”“Saw you, Miz Kerrigan,

but I didn’t want to disturbyou,no.”“You’renotdisturbingme,

Mose.”Hereyessearchedhis

face. “But you look troubledand you brought yourpistols.”Mose stared at his

shuffling feet. “I’m havingbad dreams, Miz Kerrigan. Isee everybody, all of us,dead.”Katesaidnothing.“You have the gift. Have

you dreamed a terribledream?”Kate smiled and took the

blackman’shand.“Yes, I’ve

haddreamsandlikeyouI’veseenthings.There,wherethecabin stands, I saw a greatmansion with four whitepillars outside. I’ve seengardensaroundthehouseandfatcattleinthepastures.Iseemy sons grown to manhood,tall and straight, and mydaughters as pretty as a fieldof bluebonnets. And I seeyou,Mose,inanarmchaironthe porch telling mygrandchildren what the land

was like in the olden dayswhen Texas was wild. I seeall those things and I willmake then happen, Mose.Andyouwillhelpme.”“Is that really how it’s

going to be, Miz Kerrigan,justlikeyoudreamit?”“Yes,Mose.That’sexactly

howitwillbe.”Moses considered that. “I

don’t think I’ll have baddreams no more, MizKerrigan.”

Kate smiled. “Let’s goback to the cabin and getsomecoffee.”MarcoSalassteppedoutof

his shop and called to Kateand Moses before theyentered the cabin. “I havesomething toshowyou,Mrs.Kerrigan.”She stepped into the shop

andMarcowavedtoanobjectthat stood behind the forge.“Whatdoyouthink?”“Whatisit?”Kateasked.

“It’s a cannon, Mrs.Kerrigan.”“It’s a small cannon,”

Mosessaid.Marco shrugged. “Well, I

onlyhadsomuchiron.”The black cannon barrel

was about three feet long,bandedby threeshiningsteelhoops. Brass cogwheel gearscranked by a wooden handleapparently adjusted forelevation and the cannonitself was fixed to a round

iron platform about the sizeofalargedinnerplate,thoughit was at least three inchesthick. Inlaid into the barrelwere the ornate brass initialsKR.“This is what the cannon

fires, Mrs. Kerrigan.” Marcodropped a heavy iron ballaboutthesizeofawalnutintoher hand. “Thanks to CountAndropov, Ihavegunpowderand fuse,” the blacksmithsaid. “But only enough for

oneshot.”“You haven’t tested it?”

Kateasked.“No.Thecounthadonlya

little piece of fuse in hiswagon.” He grinned. “But Idon’tneedtotestthecannon.I will shoot it against ourenemies.”“Marco, make sure you

stand well back if you evertry to touch that thing off,”Katecautioned.“It is a fine cannon,”

Marcosaid.“See, it saysKRon the barrel for KerriganRanch, and that means itwon’tfail.”Despite her misgivings,

Kate smiled. “Thank you,Marco. It is indeed a finecannon.”On their way to the cabin

Mosessaid,“I think that isadangerous thing Marco hasbuilt.”Kate nodded and smiled.

“ThankGodwe’llneverhave

touseit.”“Well, maybe next

Independence Day,” Mosessaid.“No.Noteven then,”Kate

saidpositively.

CHAPTERFORTY-THREE

“The woman lives,” HackRivettesaid.“Iwanther.”“Miss St. Jameswants her

dead and that’s the name ofthat tune,”JackHickamsaid.“You don’t agree, Rivette,then get on your horse and

ride.”Rivette sat in a tent with

Hickam and the four Texasguns.Heknewitwasnotthetime to push, but he asked,“Whogetsher, theSt. Jameswoman?”“She’s mine,” Hickam

said. “You stay away fromher.”“Hell, we should all get a

taste.”Rivette looked aroundat the guns, seeking theirapproval, but they avoided

eyecontact.“LeaveSavannahbeorI’ll

kill you, Rivette.” Hickam’seyestelegraphedhisthoughts.He was ready to draw if hehadto.Rivette read the signs and

said, “I made a joke, Jack.Thatwasall.”Hickam’s eyes didn’t

change any. “Then see youdon’tmakeanotherone.AndtheKerriganwoman ismine,at least for awhile.You can

haveherafterIfinish.”“Andthenkillher?”“Yeah. And then you kill

her.”“A big waste, Jack. Kill a

fine-lookinggallikethat.”“It’s what Savannah St.

James wants. How manytimes do you need to hearthat?”Rivette shrugged. “I got

yourdrift.”Hickam took a swig from

thebottle themen in the tent

hadbeenpassingaround.“Gocheckthehorselines,Rivette.There are still Comanchesabout.”“Why me?” Rivette asked

churlishly.“Because you’re the new

man and you haven’t provedyourself. Now git and dowhatyou’retold.”Hack Rivette stepped out

ofthetentonaslowburn.Heknew he couldn’t shadeHickam on a drawdown, but

he planned to kill the manandtakehiswoman.Women,he corrected himself. Thatthoughtmadehimgrin.He had no intention of

walking up and down thehorse lines. He wanderedclose to the EmperorMaximilian hoping for aglance of Savannah St.James.Thewomanwasnotinsight, but a little man in aleather coat and top hatwithgoggles in front stood at the

rear of what Rivetteconsidered the railroad car.“Whatthehellareyou?”The littleman straightened

up.He held the brass handleof a wooden bucket in hishand. “I’m a steam engineer.My name is MarmadukeTweng.”“Who the hell has a name

like that?” Rivette said,deciding to take out hisviciously bad mood on thelittlegnome.

“I do,” Tweng said. “Mynamedatesbackfivehundredyears to the First BaronTweng, a soldier of greatdistinction in the ScottishWars of Independence. HefoughtontheEnglishside,ofcourse, since his name wasnotMarmadukeMacTweng.”He smiled. “A little steamengineerhumorthere.”“Like I give a damn.”

Rivettenoddedtothebucket.“Whatyougotinyourpoke?”

“Charcoal for the furnace.TheEmperorMaximilianwillbeonthemoveSunday—”“That’s the day after

tomorrow.”“Yes it is.Very good. I’m

firing up the furnace to heatthe boiler for the steam, andthough charcoal is in shortsupply around these parts, Ican usemesquite in a pinch.It burns very hot and cleanbut is quite difficult toignite.”

“How come you got allthem big pocket watches onyour coat?” Rivette asked.“You’re a strange cove andnomistake.”Tweng smiled and pointed

to his watches one by one.“Austin . . . New York . . .London...Berlin...Peking...andMelbourne,Australia.When I manufacture mysteam-powered flyingmachine, I’ll need to knowtimesaroundtheworld.”

Rivette’s big handsbunched into fists. “Flyingmachines?What the hell areyoutalkingabout?Youtryingtomakeafooloutofme?I’mgonnabeatthatsmileoffyourface,youlittlerunt.”“No,youwon’t.”Rivette turned and saw

Savannah standing outsidetheEmperor, thedoorbehindher ajar. She held her gold-platedRemingtonderringerinherhand.

The big man grinned.“Hell,missy,Iwasjustgonnahavealittlefun.”“Mr. Tweng is my steam

engineer and I set store byhim. Now be off with you.”She wore a wasp-waistedleathercorsetthatleftlittletotheimagination.Rivettewalkedtowardher,

grinning. “Maybe it’s timeyou and me sat down for alittletalk,missy.”Savannah raised the

derringer to eye level. “Ibelieve I can put two shotsinto your face at this range.You want to roll the dice,mister?”Hack Rivette was a bully

andabraggart,but therewasno bottom to him, no realsand. He knew the womancould do exactly as she saidand had probably done itbefore. “You go to hell.”Heturnedonhisheelandwalkedaway,hisfaceworking.Now

hehadanotherscoretosettle.“Mr.Tweng,areyouquite

allright?”Savannahcalled.“Just fine,” Tweng said,

wavingahand.Savannah smiled. “Maybe

Ishouldhaveshothim.”Tweng nodded. “Maybe

youshouldhave,atthat.”

CHAPTERFORTY-FOUR

“IfIremembermymilitaryhistory correctly, a flankingshot can take down a wholerow of soldiers,” CountBoleslav Andropov offered.“The same principle appliestohiredgunmen.”

“Thenweplacemycannonhere.” Marco Salas jumped,startled.“Whatwasthat?”“Just an owl,” the count

said. “Wondering who weare.”“It’ssodarkouthereaway

fromthecabin,”Marcosaid.“Then bring the lantern

closer to us.” Andropovlooked over both shoulders.“Too many ghosts of deadIndiansaroundhere.”“Grab an end,” Marco

directed. “We’ll lift thecannonontotherise.”The count grunted as he

lifted. “Damn. It weighs aton.”Marco said, gasping,

“Here,Count,righthere.”Andropovgroaned.“Wait a minute. Do you

thinkit’sintherightplace?”“Yes, yes, it’s in the right

place,” Andropov said.“Ahhh . . . Ihurt.This isyetanother ailment Imust relate

to Dr. Fullerton. Poor, poorCount Andropov, a man ofsuffering.”The rise stood only three

feet above the flat, butMarco’s plan was to hidebehind the hillock and then,when Savannah St. James’sgunmen were in the rightposition, touch off thecannon.“When the time comes, I

think we will do greatexecution, Marco. The

Cossacks will go down indroves and Mrs. Kerrigan’sranchwillbesaved.”Marco’s teeth flashed

whiteinthedarkness.“Itisamightycannon.”The count didn’t think it

was amighty cannon, but tospare the sturdy littleMexican’s feelings he saidnothing, glad the gloom hidhisexpressionofdoubt.“CountAndropov,wemust

bevigilant,”Marco said. “At

the first sign of invaders,wewill run here and man thecannon.”“A fine plan,” theRussian

said.“Wewillbethefirstlineof defense, though first lineshave an unhappy habit ofbeingwipedout.”“Thenyoumustbringyour

rifle,Count,andsellyourlifedearly.”Andropovblinked.“Falling

fortheflagisnotquitewhatIhaveinmind,Mr.Salas.”

But the Mexican wasn’tlistening.Hesightedcarefullyalong the top of the cannon,thenclappedhishands.“Thisisgoingtobegrand.”“Indeed,”CountAndropov

said, fervently wishing thathe’d never left MotherRussia.

The cabin lamps were litagainst the evening darkness

asKateKerrigansaid,“Mose,I have instructions for youthatyoumustcarryouttotheletter.Doyouunderstand?”He nodded. “I surely do,

MizKerrigan.”“Very well then. Now, at

the first sign of approachingtrouble you will get Ivy andShannon and take themwestongoodhorsesintothebrushcountry.”“ButMizKerrigan—”“There you will hide and

onlycomeoutofhidingwhenyouhearmecalloutforyou.The girls are old enough toappreciate the danger we arein,sotheywillcooperate.”“ButIwantto—”“If you don’t hear my

voice, then you will know Iam dead. You will then usethemoneyI’llgiveyoutogetout of West Texas. And no,Mose, you cannot stay hereand fight. I needyou to savemy daughters. They trust

you.”“It’s a hard thing to leave

you in danger, MizKerrigan,”Mosessaid.“Whataboutyourhouse?”“It’s only a cramped little

cabin with a fancy door,Mose.Nogreatloss.”“You don’t mean that,

Kate,”FrankCobbsaid fromacrosstheroom.Kate smiled. “Not a word

ofit,butthelivesofmygirlsmust be my first

consideration.”Cobb looked at Moses.

“Seems likeyougot it todo,oldfellow.Moses sighed. “I know

wheremydutylies.Itbeginsandendswith thepretty ladysittingthereinherchair.”“Thank you, Mose,” Kate

said. “I feel better now thatyou’ll take on the job.Ensuring the welfare of twoyoung lives is a heavyresponsibility.”

Mosesnoddedandhisfacesplit into a smile. “HeaviestI’veeverhad,Ireckon.”“Tonight I’ll say a rosary

foryou,Mose.”“Thatwillsurelyhelp,Miz

Kerrigan,”Mosessaid.

CHAPTERFORTY-FIVE

“The Emperor Maximilianis building steam nicely,Mr.Hickam.Hewill be ready togo first thing tomorrowmorning,” MarmadukeTwengsaid.“You sure Savannah will

besafeinthereoncethelead

starts flying?” Jack Hickamaskedskeptically.Twengnoddedconfidently.

“The glass is tempered andwill deflect bullets. Nowlisten to this.”He removed asmall panel from the side ofthe Emperor near the backwheels and opened a valve.“Hearthat?”“Yeah, I thought I heard

waterrunning,”Hickamsaid.“You heard correctly. At

great pressure, the water is

forced through copper pipesby steam power and as itgoes, it activates little leversthat lock the windows inplace. Once the Emperorstarts to roll, I will do thesame for the doors. No onecan enter until I close thevalveandcutoffthewater.”“Or leave,” Hickam

pointedout.“Miss St. James will be

quite safe until this dreadfulbusiness is over, I assure

you.”“Savannahsaysyouhavea

firegun,”Hickamsaid.“Yes, a device ofmy own

invention. Though I’m toldthat Professor Wilkins ofOxford College in Englandhas made a similar devicethat’s mounted on a guncarriage. He calls it aninfernalmachine.”“Yourgunburnsbodies.”“Toash.”“Thenmakesureyoubring

it tomorrow, Tweng. You’llhaveplentyofworkforit.”“Will there be many

bodies,Mr.Hickam?”Twengwasatimidmanatheart.“A lot. Depend on it.”

Hickamgrinned.“Whoburnsbetter,womenormen?”“I’mafraid I don’t know,”

Twengsaid,horrified.“Well then,you’ll findout

tomorrow, won’t you?”Hickam walked away,laughing.

Hack Rivette decided to

make his play that day. Hisshifty eyes were busy. For awhile, he stood and watchedMarmaduke Tweng shovelcharcoal into the EmperorMaximilian’s furnace, thenuse his gloved hand to clangthe flap shut again. Over bythe tents, Jack Hickam wastalkingtoamanandthemankept nodding, agreeing with

whateverHickamwas tellinghim.Rivette saw a flicker ofmovement behind one of theEmperor’s windows and heswore that Savannah St.James had been naked. Allthatledtothoughtshesharedwithnoone.He smiled to himself. The

woman would be his soonenough,onceHickamwasoutoftheway.Hewaslivingthelastfewhoursofhislife,andthatgaveRivetteagreatdeal

ofsatisfaction.Hickam went into the tent

andthemanhe’dbeentalkingwith walked in Rivette’sdirection.Hehadfieldglasseshanging from a strap aroundhisneck.“Mountup.Wegotajobtodo.”“What kind of job?”

Rivetteaskedgruffly.“We’re gonna scout the

Kerrigan place, make surethey don’t have anyunpleasant surprises in store

fortomorrow.”“Who says?” Rivette

looked at him closely,remembering that they calledthemanLefty.“Youknowwhosays.The

boss,JackHickam.”“Heain’tgonnabetheboss

too much longer,” Rivettemuttered.“Well, that’s between you

and him, I guess.” The manwas small and thin andworehisColtonhislefthip.“Let’s

getsaddledup.”Rivettedecidedtogoalong

with it. He planned to killHickamintheevening,makeone less for dinner. Untilthen, he’d nothing better todo.He glanced at the window

where he thought he’d seenSavannah, but there was nosignofher.Count Ivan Boleslav

Andropovputhistelescopetohis eye and studied theadvancing riders. He didn’tknowwhoorwhattheywere,buthewassuretheywereuptonogood.Whenthesmallerof the two scouted the landahead of him with fieldglasses, it confirmed thecount’s suspicions . . . theycould only be a pair of thenotorious Savannah St.James’shiredgunmen.Faithful to his promise to

Marco Salas, Andropov hadtaken up a perch in thecemetery above the Kerrigancabin. Although his .42Berdan infantry rifle had aneffective range of threehundred yards, such a shotwas beyond his skill as amarksman.Hisgreatfearwasthat theriderswouldspot thecannonandruintheirplanforanambush.For a few moments,

Andropovkneeledinthought,

soft grass under him and thelateAugust sunwarmon hisshoulders.Hehadno time toraise an alarm. By then, thespiesmightbegone.Crouching low, he made

his way across the rise anddropped down to the flat onthe other side. He ran, stillcrouched, staying to the thincover of mesquite and wildoak. A dip in the groundahead gave him respite. Hedropped into the hollow,

regained his breath, thenbellied up the slope andpeeredthroughthelonggrass.The two men had moved

forward a hundred yards andwere very close to thecannon. Andropov felt hisheart lurch in his chest. Alltheyhad todowas turn theirheads a little to the left andthey’dseeit,butbothseemedfixatedon the terrain that layahead of them, peacefulenough,dottedhereandthere

withgrazingcattle.Andropov nodded to

himself as he watched thepair search for improviseddefenses that the Kerrigansmight have thrown up inhaste to guard the cabin anditsinhabitants.Thenhehadamoment of sheer horror. Theman with the field glassesswung his horse around androdedirectlyforthecannon.Andropov bit his lip hard.

MyGod,hadheseenit?

The rider drew rein andleaned forward in the saddle.He shaded his eyes with hishandandgazedintentlyattheshallow rise where thecannon was only partlyhidden.Andropov made up his

mind. Desperate timesrequired desperate measures.HepushedtheBerdaninfrontof him and sighted on thesmall man who haddismounted andwaswalking

toward the rise.Thebigmanonthehorsewatchedhim.Andropov, as he’d been

taught,tookabreath,letsomeof it out, then squeezed theBerdan’s trigger. The rifleslammedagainsthisshoulder,and at the same instant, hesawthelittlemandroplikeasaplingfelledbyanaxe.His fingers fumbling, the

Russian worked the bolt anddroppedapapercartridgeintothe Berdan’s chamber. He

slammed the bolt home andhis narrowed eyes searchedfor the big gunman. To hissurprise, the man had turnedtailandran,hishorsealreadyvanishing into its own dustcloud. Andropov rose to hisfeet, threw the rifle to hisshoulder, and snapped off ashot,butheknewevenashepulled the trigger that itwould be a miss. He wasright. The man was gone,galloping fast into the

distance.Hisrifledanglinginhisleft

hand, Andropov stepped tothe man he’d shot, who wasdead as a cigar store Indian.The Russian looked down attheman and placed his handonhisbloodychest.Heshookhis head. “Damned Cossack,why did you make poorAndropovkillyou?”The only answer was the

sighof thewindas it rippledthe long grass. He heard

footsteps behind him andturned,expectingtoseeFrankCobb,butitwasMarcoSalas,hisfaceconcerned.Marco glanced at the dead

man. “Is my cannon allright?”Andropovgavealittlenod.

“Yes it is. And so am I.Thankyouforyourconcern.”Marcogavealittlebow.“I

am glad you are unhurt,Count.Whoishe?”“One of the St. James

gunmen, I believe. Therewere two of them, but theother ran away. They wereusing field glasses to spy onthecabin.”Marco stepped to the

cannon and inspected itclosely. “It is undamaged,thankGod.”Andropov nodded to the

dead man. “This one mayhaveseenit.HewaswalkingtowarditwhenIshothim.”“Andtheother?Didhesee

it?”“I don’t know. I don’t

thinkso.Let’sgetthisoneonhishorse.”Marco nodded. “Yes, we

must take him back to thehouse.”“No. I’ll drop him off at

thecemeteryandwecanburyhimlater.There’snopointinupsettingtheladies.”“But he might still be

alive,”Marcosaid.Andropov cursed in

Russian. “Marco,hischest isshot through and through,he’snotbreathing,hisheartisnot beating, and his eyes arestaring at nothing. I’m prettysurehe’sdead.”The Mexican crossed

himself.“Thenmayherestinpeace.”“Amen.Now let’s get him

onthehorse.”

CHAPTERFORTY-SIX

Hack Rivette was in aseething, killing rage as hedrew rein near the clanking,steaming EmperorMaximilianandswungoutofthesaddle.“Where the hell is Lefty

Wilder?”JackHickamyelled

abovetheracket.“He’sdead.”“Whathappened?”Hickam

was joined by the threesurvivinggunman.Savannah stood at a

windowandlookedon.“Hegotbushwhackedbya

hidden rifleman,” Rivettesaid.“ProbablyFrankCobb.”Surprised, Hickam asked,

“Youmeanhewaslayingforyou?”Rivette’s anger snapped.

“Ofcoursehewas laying forus. Probably him and others.Theyknowwe’recoming.”“Howmany?”“Hell, I don’t know.

Enough to drop us all beforewe get anywhere near thedamnKerrigan spread, lay tothat.”Hickam didn’t believe it.

“Are you sure? Are youcertainitwasCobb?”“Yeah, I’m sure. You

callingmealiar?”

“Howcomeyoudidn’tgethit?”oneoftheothergunmenaskedsnidely.“BecauseIlitoutofthere,”

Rivette said. “Damned if Iwasgonnastayputandswaplead with sharpshooters Icouldn’tsee.”Savannah opened one of

the Emperor’s doors andstepped outside.Her lustroushair was piled on top of herhead in a cascade of glossywaves and curls, and she

wore a pearl blouse, blacktaffeta skirt, and lace-upboots with high heels. Anantique brass handmagnifierhung around her neck, and agold mechanical watch hungfrom a chain around herwaist.Rivette thought her

breathtaking and wantedmorethanevertopossessher.Thewomanwavedthemen

away from the Emperor.When they were sufficiently

distant from the roar ofMarmaduke Tweng testingthesteamengines,shesaid,“Icouldn’t hear from inside.Jack,whathashappened?”“LeftyWilderisdead,shot

down by Frank Cobb.”Hickam read the question onher face. “He’s a formerlawman and good with agun.”“I reckon he’s doing that

Kerrigan gal,” Rivette said,grinning.

“Crudity does not becomeyou, Mr. Rivette,” Savannahsaid. “There is a ladypresent.”“Keep that in mind,

Rivette,”Hickamordered.The gunman apologized,

his face working. “Sorry,Miss St. James.” But soonyou’llbetheonethat’ssorry.“Rivette says the Kerrigan

crowd is laying for us,Savannah. They got riflemenin position to defend the

place.”“Theyknowwe’re coming

and they canpickusoff at adistance,” Rivette put in. “Iwas lucky to get away withmylife.”Savannah’s laughter was

light as a spring rain.“There’s no need for yourconcern, gentlemen. Mr.Tweng assures me that theEmperor Maximilian is themost powerful weapon onearth. It will crush anyone

and anything in its path.Thelate Mexican emperorMaximilian fearedassassination above all elseandthatiswhyhisgreatlandcarriage ismadeof thefineststeel and the windows ofreinforced glass. Both willturn aside bullets. All thewindows and doors can belocked and no enemy canforcehiswayinside.”“So we just drive it over

folks,”Hickamsaid.

“Yes,Jack.Overfolksandthroughbuildings,”Savannahsaid. “The Emperor willpulverize everything in itspath, human and animal,crushing and destroying.When the enemy isdemoralized, I mean KateKerrigan and her minions,Mr. Tweng will open thedoors and we will leave theEmperor and shoot downthosewhoare still standing.”She laughed again. “There

won’tbemanyofthose.”ShesawdoubtinHickam’s

eyes and said, “The terrainaround the Kerrigan place isperfectly flat. The Emperorwillbeinitselement.”Hickam nodded and

grinned. “It can be done, byGod.”“Of course it can be done,

Jack, and it will be done,”Savannah said. “Someone asinsignificantasKateKerriganwill never get her men to

stand against a modern,steam-powered fightingmachineliketheEmperor.Bythis time next year, KateKerrigan will be long deadand we’ll be living inLondon,Paris,orRome.”The latter part of that

speech angered Rivette.SavannahSt.Jameswouldbein his bed in London orwherever,notJackHickam’s.Themanhadtodietoday...beforetomorrow’sattack.

CHAPTERFORTY-SEVEN

“Kate, I think you shouldgetthegirlsouttoday,”Cobbsaid. “If Savannah St.James’s men were scoutingtheplacelikeAndropovsays,an attack could happenanytime.”

KatelookedatMosesRice.“Mose,whatdoyouthink?”The black man nodded.

“Mr. Cobb speaks the truth,Miz Kerrigan. I’ve beensmelling thewind and it justain’tright.There’ssomethingwickedcoming.”“Then that settles it.”Kate

wrapped her knuckles on thetable. “Ivy, Shannon, you’regoing with Mose.” Shesmiled.“It’s thebeginningofagreatadventure.”

Ivywaseleven,oldenoughtoknowwhatwashappening.“We want to stay with you,Ma.Wecanhelpyou.”“Attend to your mother,

young ladies,” Cobb said,doinghisbest,andfailing, tomakehisvoicestern.“It’s all right, Frank. I

understand how Ivy feels. Iwould have felt the same ather age.” Kate drew herdaughters closer to her chairand kissed them both. “The

bestwayyoucanhelpistogowithMose.He’llneedyoutotakecareofhim.”“That’s right, Miz

Kerrigan, Isurewill.”Mosesnoddedhisgrizzledhead.“Ma, suppose you die?”

Shannon asked carefully. “Idon’twantmymatodie.”“I won’t die. We’ll all be

together again real soon.You’llsee.”“Moses, Kate packed up

some grub, and I’ve saddled

thehorses,”Cobbsaid.“Bestyouheadoutbeforedark.”“Ma,please . . .” Ivysaid,

tearsinhereyes.Kate smiled back her own

tears. “It will be only for afew days and then I’ll comeforyou.Now,gowithMose,and be polite to him like Itaughtyou.”“Ma”—Shannon hesitated

—“you’llcomeforus?”Still holding back tears,

Kate nodded. It was a long

time before she managed tosay,“YouknowIwill.”Allwalked slowlyoutside,

Ivy and Shannon clinging totheirmother.The girls mounted their

horses, then reached acrossthedistancetoholdhands.Cobb, his facegrim, stood

besideMoses’ paint and saidinawhisper,“Mose,we’reupagainst some mighty roughmen, men without aconscience. Do you

understandwhatI’msaying?”Moses nodded. “Got me

myDragoon,Mr.Cobb.”“I’m sorry, Mose, but it

hadtobesaid.”“I know it had. And I’ll

pray that itdon’tnevercometothat.”Moses Rice and the girls

rodeoutunderanambersky.Only when they were out ofsightdidKatelayherheadonCobb’schestandletthetearscome.

“We’ll defend only the

cabin,” Cobb said. “Trace,you and Quinn will take uppositionsatthefrontandrearwindows. Your mother is agood rifle shot. She’ll fightand there’s no use trying totalkheroutofit.”“What about Doc

Fullerton?”Traceasked.“She’llbeinthecabinwith

Marco Salas’s wife and

children. God help you, it’sgoing to be cramped inthere.”Quinn asked, “What about

MarcoandtheCount?”“They’ve volunteered to

acts as pickets and keepwatch. At the first sign oftrouble, they’ll fall back andjoinyouinthecabin.”“And you, Frank?” Trace

questioned.“I can fight better off a

horse.”

Trace didn’t question that.Frank was a mounted pistolfighter in the Texas guerrillastyle, and his revolver skillswouldbewasted in thecloseconfinesofthecabin.Cobb looked around the

table.“Anyquestions?”Trace shook his head. “I

guessnot.You,Quinn?”The boy nodded. “Only

one. The cabin’s timbers arebone dry and it would catchfire real easy. What if they

torchit?”“Then you all get out of

thereinahurryandtakeupaposition in the blacksmith’sshop,” Cobb directed. “Godwilling, I’ll be there to helpyou.”“It’s pretty bleak, Frank,”

Tracesaid.Cobb nodded. “That’s the

wordforit,allright.Bleak.”Trace thought of another

question. “How many mendoes Savannah St. James

have?”“If she’s beenhiringguns,

she’ll have plenty,” Cobbsaid.“All the more for us to

shoot,”Quinnpointedout.Cobb grinned. “You’ll do,

Quinn.You’lldo.”Kate Kerrigan walked up

the rise behind the cabin tothe cemetery. She stoodbeside the fresh grave of the

boy Count Andropov hadkilled and said a rosary forhisimmortalsoul.By the time she was

finished,thedayhadbeguntoshade intoevening.As farasher eyes could reach, shecould see the healthylonghornsandthewhitefacesof the Herefords grazing onher broad acres. Indeed, itwasalandworthfightingfor,the Kerrigan Ranch, herpresentandherfutureandher

family’sfuture.Lithe and beautiful as an

Irish warrior queen, Katewalked down the darkeninghill. Lamps were lit in thecabin and she smelled thetang of baking bread androastingmeat.

CHAPTERFORTY-EIGHT

The light was fading,coyotes yipped, and HackRivette steeled himself totakehisshot. Ifhewas tobethe bull of the woods andownSavannahSt. James andall she represented, it was

time to get rid of JackHickam. Rivette stood inshadow near the horse linesand watched the gunmanmovebackand forth in frontof the fire. He had alreadyspent an hour ormore insidetheEmperorMaximilian andthat rankled. Hickam wasgetting what Rivette wantedandthathadtostop.He stepped out of the

shadows and walked towardthe tents where the fire

burned and bacon and beanscooked in a sooty pot.Hickam had his back turnedand stared into the fire, acigar in his teeth. Rivettedrew his gun and held itdown by his leg. His mouthwas dry and fear fiddled atuneinhisbelly.Supposehisrevolver misfired? Supposehis target turned at the lastmomentanddrew?Heforcedthosedoubtsoutofhishead.JackHickamwasalreadya

dead man. He just didn’tknowityet.Moving quietly for such a

big man, Rivette movedcloser...tenyards...five... he slowed his pace . . .spittingdistance.Now!HeraisedhisColtandfired

a shot into Hickam’s backandthenhealmostscreamed.Hickamdidn’tdrop!Jack Hickam was among

the best of the best. Assuddenasastrikingcobra,he

drewandfired.Rivette tooktheball in the

center of his chest and knewhewasadeadman.Bothmendropped to their kneesswaying, but facing eachother.Rivettetriedashotandscoredahit.Hickam,roaringhisoutrage,absorbedtheballand fired twice. He hitRivette in the chest a secondtime and his third shot tookthe big man smack betweentheeyes.

Hetoppledoveronhissideandlaystill.Hickam,snarlinglike a wolf, emptied his guninto him.The last thing JacksawinthislifewasSavannahwalking toward him. Shedidn’tlooksad.Justangryashell.“What happened?” she

asked the three guns whowere staring slack-jawed atthedeadmen.Noonesaidanythingfora

moment.

Finally one of them, builtlikearainbarrel,saidquietly,“Thenewmanwalkedupandshot Jack in the back. ThenJack turned and done forhim.”“Are they both dead?”

Savannahasked.“Asthey’reevergonnabe,

ma’am,”RainBarrelsaid.“Damn. That means you

boys will need to haul extrafreight.”A towheadsaid,“This isa

bad luck outfit, lady. I’mouttahere.”As the other twomuttered

agreement, Savannah put herhands on her generous hipsandsaid,“Whatwillittaketokeep you boys here? Justnameit.”RainBarrelshookhishead.

“Ma’am,whatyougotweallwant, but the price is toohigh.”Savannah looked at them

coldly. “You damn scum.

You signed on to stay untilthe job is over.Well, it isn’tover until my herd is inKansas.”“It’s over,” the towhead

said,hiseyesglitteringinthefirelight. “But you owe meand I’m gonna claim mydue.”RainBarrel grinned. “And

thatgoesfermeaswell.”Themen advancedonher,

nakeddesireintheireyes.Savannah drew her

derringer and shot RainBarrel in the face. The squatman screamed and fell. Theother twohesitated for just amoment and that was theirdeath.Two rifle shots rang out

and both men were hit. Thetowheadfellimmediately,butthe second staggered a fewsteps, then pitched forward,hisfaceinthefire.MarmadukeTwengwalked

out of the gloom, a Henry.

44-40 fitted with a strangebrassandcoppersightaslongastherifleitself.Savannah took a deep

breath. “Thank you, Mr.Tweng.”“Some things I just can’t

let happen, Miss St. James.The violation of a woman isone of them.” After amoment’s hesitation, heasked, “What will you donow?”She frowned. “What do

youmean?”“Willyouhiremoremen?”“Withwhat?Mymoney is

allgone.”“Can I take you

somewhere?”Twengoffered.“Of course you can. We

attack theKerriganRanch inthe morning just as Iplanned.”Tweng frowned. “You

meanusingonlytheEmperorMaximilian?”“You told me it is a

weaponofwar.”Behindheracircle of firelight pooledscarletinthedarkness.“It can be used as such.”

Twengnodded.“IwanttheKerriganRanch

destroyed and every livingthing dead, Mr. Tweng,especially Kate. Can you dothat?”“As an engineer, I’m

anxious to discover if anarmored vehicle can be usedin war,” Tweng answered.

“Of course, I’ll be killingpeople, but it’s all in thecause of advancing science.Yes, by the Lord Harry, I’lldoit.”“Iwant themalldead,Mr.

Tweng.Imeaneverylastoneof them, adults and theirspawn. Crushed, pounded,pulverizedtodeath.Iwanttowatch Kate Kerrigan’s bloodandgutsspurtfromunderthewheels.”Tweng nodded. “Yes, yes,

IbelievetheEmperorhasthatcapability. As always, steamwillseeusthrough.”Savannah’s smile was

slow, seductive. “Tosealourbargain,may I do somethingniceforyou,Mr.Tweng?”“Alas, dear lady, as much

as I admire them for theirintelligence andwit I amnotdrawn to the charms ofwomankind. I much prefermankind, if you understandmymeaning.”

“You’reaqueerlittleman,Mr.Tweng.”“No,MissSt. James. I am

asteamengineer.”

CHAPTERFORTY-NINE

Kate Kerrigan could notsleep. Frank Cobb’s plan forthedefenseofher ranchkeptplaying over and over in herhead.Tofightexpertgunmenfrom the confines of a cabinthat could be burned to theground in minutes was a

recipefordisaster.Sherosequietlyand threw

her cloak over her nightattire. She took the Henryfromtherackonthewallandsteppedoutside.Allwasquietandahornedmoonrodehighinthesky.Themenfolkwereasleep in the blacksmith’sshop except for CountAndropov, who alwaysbedded down in his ricketygeneralstore.Katewalkedawayfromthe

ranch buildings and movedwest onto the flat grassland.Coyotes, attracted by a freshgrave, prowled the cemeteryon the rise and yipped theireternalhunger.Driven by the will to

survive, she walked a mileinto the prairie and thenstopped,herriflebyherside.Here, on this ground, waswhere the Kerrigan Ranchwouldmakeitsfight.Trace and Quinn were

goodrifleshots,aswasCountAndropov. And so was she.Frankwouldstaymounted,aswas his training andinclination. Kate stared intothe shrouded darkness. Evenat the charge, Savannah St.James’s mounted gunmenwouldbeoutintheopenandthey could be stopped byaccurate rifle fire. It alldependedon...Ahead of her, the clouds

parted and a lone horseman

walked his horse into sight.Kate racked a round into theHenry, a sharp, mechanicalsoundthatcarriedfar.The rider stopped and sat

hissaddleinsilence.“I can drop you from

here,” Kate called. Jesus,Mary, and Joseph her voicesounded too high, as thoughshe was frightened—whichshewas.The man in the distance

laughed. “Who else in West

Texas would have an accentas Irish as the pigs o’Docherty?”Kate thought she

recognized the voice. “Whoare you?” she called, herwordsechoing.“Well,IcouldbePresident

UlyssesS.Grant,butI’mnot.Youknowme,Mrs.Kerrigan.I’mHenryBrown,late in theemploy of the deceased Mr.JasonHunt.”Katefeltherheartleap,but

she remainedcautious. “Ridecloserand letme takea lookatyou.”The horseman rode

forward.Sherecognizedhimandlet

her rifle fall toherside.“It’sdelightful to see you again,Mr. Brown.Where have youbeen?”“Hereandthere.I’mriding

the owlhoot, butwhat bringsyououtonto thebiggrass inthemiddleofthenight?”

Kate ignored that andaskedherownquestion.“Mr.Brown,didyouseeanysightofarmedmen?”“Sure didn’t. But in the

distance I saw lights in thewindowsofwhat looked likea railroad car. Heard it too.Somebody build a railroadsinceIwaslasthere?”“No. It’s not a railroad. I

have some things to tell you,Mr.Brown.”He stepped out of the

saddle, walked his horseforward, and smiled. “Tellaway,Mrs.Kerrigan.”Using as few words as

possible, Kate told of theevents leading up to theimpending attack on theKerrigan Ranch. “I couldn’tsleep and came out here tostudytheground.”Brown nodded. “I agree

with you that this is the bestplacetomakeourfight.”“Ourfight,Mr.Brown?”

“I told you I’d come backwhen you needed me. I’mmany things, Mrs. Kerrigan,notallofthemhonorable,butIdokeepmyword.”“I’msogladyou’llbewith

us,Mr.Brown. I thinkwe’regoing into a fight badlyoutnumbered. And Savannahhas that strange machine Itoldyouabout.”“Then we’ll just have to

even the odds. Now let meget you back to the cabin so

you can get some rest.” Helooked at the star-scatteredsky. “We’ll be back herebeforesunup.”“Youthinkthey’llattackin

themorning?”Kateasked.“Judging by the noise that

steam carriage was making,that would be my guess. Ifnot tomorrow, then the dayafter.”HewalkedKatetohercabin and then went to theclutteredblacksmith’sshopinsearchofFrankCobb.

He found him in hisblankets, his head wedgedbetweenthefeetof theanvil.Brown shook Cobb awake,and for his trouble got thecoldmuzzleoftheman’sColtjammedbetweenhiseyes.“Don’t shoot. It’s me,

HenryBrown.”Cobb swore. “I could’ve

blowed your damn fool headoff,Brown.”“Weneedtotalk.”“Whattimeisit?”

“Midnight.Thereabouts.”“You don’t wake up a

Christian white man atmidnight or thereabouts,”Cobbgriped.Browngrinned.“Idoitall

thetime.”“Thenit’sawonderyou’re

still alive.” Still grumbling,Cobb rose to his feet andfollowed him outside and adistance from the forge.“Well, what’s so all-firedimportant? Make it good,

Henry,because I’mseriouslyconsideringputtingaballintoyou.”“Frank, I met Mrs.

Kerrigantonight.”Suddenly,Cobbwaswide-

awake.“Metherwhere?”“Out on the grass. She

plans to make our standthere.”“Our stand? Are you

planning to stay around thistime?”Browngrinned.“Isuream.

IlikeMrs.Kerriganandyou,too,Frank, sinceyou’re suchanaffablefeller.”“My plan is to defend the

cabin,”Cobbargued.“Iknow.She toldme.She

thinksit’salousyplanandsodo I. You’ll be trapped likerats in the cabin. But out onthe flat we can pick off thebadmenbeforetheyevengetclose.”“They come in a rush and

they’ll come fast,” Cobb

pointedout.“So? We’ll just need to

shootfastisall.”Cobb shook his head.

“Kateistheboss.Shedoesasshepleases.”“Andthistimeshehappens

to be right. What about themachine Savannah St. Jameshas?”“It’s a steam carriage.

We’ve nothing to fear fromthat. She and her hired gunswillcomemounted.”

Brown shook his head.“Wegotafightonourhands,Frank. Damn, I’m lookingforwardtoit.”“That’s because you’re a

crazyman, even crazier thanWesHardin. I’m going backtomyblankets.”“Mrs. Kerrigan wants us

outontheflatbeforesunup.IhopeIseeyouthere.”“Brown, when the fight

starts your horse’s nose willbeupmyhorse’sass.”

“That’s my brave boy,”Brownsaid,grinning.Frank Cobb badly wanted

toshoothim.

CHAPTERFIFTY

Savannah St. James rangforhermaid,whoappearedinher nightgown, her hair incurling ribbons and her darkface shining with nightcream.“I’msorrytocallyousolate,Leah.Youmustthinkmemostinconsiderate.”

“Not at all, Miss St.James,” the maid said. “It isnotrouble.”“Please sit, Leah.”

Savannah motioned to thesofa.The woman sat on the

edge.“How long have you been

withme,Leah?”“Fifteen years, Miss St.

James.Eversinceyouwerealovely young thing living inLondontown.”

“You’ve been a good andfaithfulservant,Leah.”“Thank you.” The woman

lookedpuzzled.“You know I attack the

Kerriganwomanandhervileclan tomorrow morning,don’tyou?”Savannahasked.“Yes, ma’am. And a

wicked, wicked woman sheis, murdering poor Mr. St.Jameslikethat.”“Indeed she is. Leah, I

asked you here because I

want to give you this.” Shepulled a bloodred ruby ringfromherfinger.“It’stheonlythingofvalueIhaveleft.”Leah looked stricken.

“Miss St. James, are youdismissingme?”“Yes I am, Leah. All my

money is gone and I can nolonger pay you.” Savannahlaidherderringeronthetablebesideher.“Whenthisisoverand I watch Mrs. Kerrigandie,Iwillusethatweaponto

takemyownlife.”“But why, Miss St.

James?” Leah couldn’tunderstand. “You will havetheherds.”Savannahsmiled.“Ah,yes,

the herds. But I have nomoneytopaycowboystoseecattle through thewinter andround them up come spring.No money to drive themnorth.” Savannah smiled. “Ivery much doubt that I haveenough pennies in my purse

toseemyself throughwinter.I’dprobablystarvetodeath.Irolledthedice,yousee,andIlost.”“Your brother could have

savedus,”Leahsaidloyally.“Yes, he could, but now

he’sdead,and theonly thingremaining tome is toavengehismurder.HowIlongtokillthatKerriganwoman.”Leahshookherhead.“I’m

not leaving you, Savannah. Iloveyouas thoughyouwere

myown child. Ifwe die,wedietogether.”“No,Leah,youmustleave.

Saveyourself.”“This is thefirstcommand

from you I have refused toobey. I will not leave. I willremain at your side until theend. If we both must die ofstarvation,thensobeit.”Savannah rose from her

chair and took Leah in herarms.“YouareallIhaveleft.Later,we’lltalkabouttheold

timesandwe’lllaughandcryandremember.”“Perhapswe’llfindaway,”

Leahsaid.“You’llfindawaytoliveandloveagain.”“I can’t be young again.

And I won’t let you sufferwith me.” Savannah reachedbehind her and found thederringer. “Farewell, Leah. Iloveyousomuch.”The derringer roared and

Leahdiedinstantly.Savannah lay the woman

outonthecouchandsatbackinher chair.She sat in silentvigil over Leah’s body untilsunrise, when MarmadukeTwengcalledoutforher.“IthoughtIheardashotin

the night, Miss St. James,”Tweng said. “Was it theKerriganwoman?”“No, Mr. Tweng,”

Savannah said. “Leah tookher own life. I wanted to

dismiss her, but she couldn’tbeartobepartedfromme.”“Where is she? Oh, I see

her,”Twengsaid.“Shelookssopeacefullyingthere.”“Yes, she’s at peace now.

Wewill bury her in the spotwhere the Kerrigan cabinstandsandputKateKerriganatherfeet.”“Poetic justice.” Tweng

worehisgoggles.His leathercoatwasbuckled to theneckandheworeapairof leather

gauntlets.“I want everyone dead,”

Savannahremindedhim.Annoyed, Tweng said,

“Yes, and I assured you thatthe Emperor Maximilian hasthat capability. I have notchanged my mind since. Ibelieve that, properlyhandled, it will cause greatslaughter.”Savannahwentbackinside

and dressed for war. Shewore her tight leather corset,

Mexican army officer’scampaign pants, and highboots.Across her chest hunga bandolier of .44-40 rifleshells for the Henry she’dproppedagainstherchair.Tweng appeared at the

door again. “I will lock thedoorsandwindowsandopenthemagainwhenwe’rereadytofinishoffthewounded.”Savannah nodded. “Can I

depend on you, Mr. Tweng?Canyoukill?”

Twengsmiled.“Dear lady,I am only the engineer. TheEmperor will do the killing,and very efficiently.Remember,heisinvulnerabletogunfire.”“Thenlet’sgetitdone.”A few moments later, she

heard the click-click of thedoorsandwindowslockinginplaceandthenagreatbellowfromthedrivetrainasTwenggavefullthrottletothesteamengines. His cabin was in

front, fully enclosed byreinforcedglass, andoneachsideofhis seatwasa systemof heavily oiled levers thatguidedtheEmperor.Marmaduke Tweng was

very excited. Hitherto, he’dconsidered the Emperor asmerely a conveyance, butfinally it would prove itsworthasaweaponofwar.He smiled. Steam would

seehimthrough.

CHAPTERFIFTY-ONE

Long before dawn, KateKerrigan and Jazmin Salashadcoffeeontheboil,baconfrying, and biscuits in theoventofeedthehungrymen.They stood around outside

and ate in silence, each busywith his thoughts. Frank

Cobb started out surly, stillangry at being wakened byBrown when he wasdreaming about Kate, butcoffeehelped.Bythetimehewas ready to move onto thegrass,hewasalmostcheerful.Kate wore a canvas riding

skirt, then becomingfashionable, boots, and aman’sshirt.Onherheadwasa battered hat and blackgloves covered her hands toreduce the impact of the

Henry’s recoil. Even at thatearly hour of the morning,she was dazzlingly lovely.The gallant Count Andropovdeclaredhertobe“avisionofCelticbeauty.”Marco Salas carried no

weapon since he wasproficient with neither riflenor pistol. He wore hisleather blacksmith’s apronand a pair of goggles as eyeprotection should his cannondecidetoblowuponhim.

An unexpected recruit toKate’s little army was PeteSlicer. Although still gauntand in constant pain, heinsisted on joining in thedefenseoftheranch.Cobb was not impressed.

“Pete, I see you make onefancy move, I swear to GodI’llgunyou.”“I’ll stick,” Slicer said.

“I’mnotdoingthisforyouorforKateKerrigan.It’sforDr.Fullerton. She saved my life

and now I’m going to helpsavehers.”Henry Brown grinned.

“Sweetonher,huh?”“You could say that.”

Slicer glared. “But don’t sayitagain.”“You’re a mite touchy on

thatsubject,Pete,”Cobbsaid.“Yeah, well, I don’t think

Maryissweetonme,”Slicergrumbled.“Oh,Idon’tknow,”Brown

said. “Stranger things have

happened.”Slicer glared again.

“You’reapushyman,sonny.It’s gonna get you shot oneday.”Kateandtheotherswerein

position while it was stilldark, strung out acrosstwenty-five yards of prairie.The only people not in thefiring line were Marco, wholefttotendtohiscannon,and

Dr. Fullerton, who heldherself in reserve to treat thewounded.Cobb had decided to stay

onthegroundandjoinintherifle fire.He layon thegrassnext to Kate, Trace on herotherside.“Do you see anything,

Frank?”Kateasked.Cobbshookhishead.“Not

athing.”“Trace, you and Quinn

haveyoungeyes,”Kate said.

“Keepasharpwatch.”Count Andropov turned to

Henry Brown at his side.“This reminds me of theRussian 345th Regiment ofFoot waiting for the Frenchcuirassier cavalry charge attheBattleofBorodino.”“Did the Russians win?”

Brownasked.“No.Theywerewipedout

toaman.”Brown stared. “Count, go

lie down beside somebody

else,huh?”Marco Salas kneeled

besidehiscannonandforthethird time in a few minutescheckedthatthefusewasstillin place. Not trustingcommercially made lucifersto light when needed, he’dmade his own matches thatwere about as unstable assticksofsweatingdynamite.Hecouldseenothinginthe

darkness around him but tenminutes after he’d taken uphispositionheheardadistantrumble. Something wascoming and Marco preparedhimself. He said a prayer toOurLadyofGuadalupe, thenpolished the iron cannonbarrel with an oily rag. Thecannonball nestled inside thebreech ready to inflict greatdamagetotheenemycavalry,and Marco’s hands trembledwith excitement as the hour

ofbattledrewcloser.“Ma, can you hear that?”

Tracequestioned.“YesIcan.”Katepusheda

wayward curl off herforehead.SheturnedtoCobb,“Frank,whatisthat?”“Itsoundslikehorses.But,

damn it, could Savannah St.James have that many? Itsounds like a cavalryregiment.”

“TheCossacksaredrawing

closer, Mr. Brown,”Andropov said. “We mustmeet their charge withbravery and determinationbeforetheywipeusout.”“Count, git the hell away

fromme.”Thedistantrumblebecame

aroarandinthedistance,still

far off, the beams of fourlarge reflector lamps probedthedarkness.Kate was the first to

recover from the shock.“That’s not horses. It’s amachine. It’s Savannah’ssteamcarriage.”“Traveling in style, isn’t

she?”Cobbsaidsarcastically.Filled with a sense of

foreboding, Kate said, “Ihopethat’sallitis.”

CHAPTERFIFTY-TWO

Marmaduke Tweng haltedthe Emperor Maximilian toletthemorninglightcatchupwith him. He was wellpleased with Emperor’sperformanceonflatground.Itwas more nimble than he’dthought, with a top speed as

fast as aman on a gallopinghorse. Fitted with fire guns,thegreatmachinewouldbeaformidable weapon indeed.When this nasty Kerriganbusiness was settled, he’dworkonarming theEmperorwith guns fore and aft andperhapsonthesides.The speaking tube above

Tweng’sheadhissedintolife.Savannah’s voice soundedtinnyasshesaid,“Whyhavewestopped,Mr.Tweng?”

“Waitingforthelight,MissSt.James.”“I think we should press

on,Mr.Tweng.”“If I can’t see ’em, I can’t

mash ’em, Miss St. James.We’llonlybeafewminutes.The darkness is alreadyfading.”“A soon as possible, Mr.

Tweng.” Thunk. Savannahreplaced her end of thespeakingtube.Tweng sighed. How little

peopleknewabout theplightof the steam engineer. Eventhegreat,sootyironcladsthatpatrolled the world’s oceansdid not fight in the dark.Come sundown, they wereblindasbats.As it was, the morning

light arrived with agonizingslowness and it was almostthirty minutes before Twengdrove the Emperor forward.He adjusted his goggles andsettledhistophatmorefirmly

on his head. Hissing,clanking, throbbing in everybolt, the mighty EmperorMaximilianwasgoingtowar.“Leah, when I kill the

Kerrigan woman, I’ll propyou up at a window so youcan see.” Savannah smiled.“Wouldyoulikethat,dear?”Leah’s dead eyes stared at

her, her head bobbing withevery movement of the

Emperor.“Yes,Ithoughtyouwould.

You’re such a treasuredfriend.”Savannahreachedforthe speaking tube and blewinto the mouthpiece. “Mr.Tweng,canyouhear?”“Loud and clear, Miss St.

James.”“When will the killing

start? Miss Leah is mostanxioustoknow.”“Soon,MissSt.James.The

Emperorisonthescent.”

Savannahsang,“A-huntingwewillgo,a-huntingwewillgo . . .” She stopped. “Themorning seems fine, Mr.Tweng. It will be a sunnyday.”“That is also my opinion,

MissSt.James.”Savannah’s voice

continued to carry throughthe speaking tube. “Did youhearthat,Leah,darling?It’safair day for killing Mrs.Kerrigan. Mr. Tweng, will

she scream much whencrushed under theEmperor’swheels?”“That entirely depends on

whereshe’scrushed,MissSt.James,” Tweng said. “Theheadnow,thatwouldkillherinstantly.”“Well,wedon’twant that,

dowe,Leah?”Savannahsaid.“Avoid the head at all costs,Mr.Tweng.”“I certainly will,” Tweng

said.“This isprovingtobea

mostinterestingexperiment.”As it rolled across the

prairie, the EmperorMaximilian was a beautifulsight, an engineeringmasterpiece of steel, glass,bronze,copper,andgreenandgold paint. Its massivewheels, each as wide as anaxehandle,weretheheightofa tall man and driven bymassivepistons.As itneared

Kate Kerrigan and her band,the Emperor looked morepredatorthanmachine,afierynightmare dragon fromanotherage.Forward in the driver’s

cabin, looking like amalevolent gnome,Marmaduke Tweng heard aPing! as someone tried along-range rifle shot. Heimmediatelycheckedhisdialsand gauges and ascertainedthat no damage had been

done. He smiled. It wouldtake more than rifle fire toturntheEmperorfromitsjustandrightfulcourse.

CHAPTERFIFTY-THREE

Marco Salas and hiscannon were positioned ahundred yards in advance ofMrs.Kerriganandherengine.He heard the crash of riflesand saw puffs of smoke, butthe terriblemachinecameon

at speed. It was less than amileawayandclosingfast.The cannon had a short

fuse that Marco would lightwhenthemachinewasalmostabreastofit.Hefiguredthatabroadside hit might hitsomething vital and stop themachine in its tracks. Thetrick was to know just whentolightthefuse.He crouched behind the

shallowrisewithhismatchesat the ready. He knew he

wouldn’t have to wait muchlonger.The riflemen were

kneeling, taking their shots,but the machine seemedimpervious to their fire. Itseemed like an inexorableforce of nature that nothingcouldstop.Cobb didn’t like it. “Kate,

run back to the cabin, saddlea horse, and get the hell out

of here. Look forMoses andthegirls.”Kate snapped off a shot,

racked the lever. “I mostcertainlywillnot.Myplaceishere,defendingmyranch.”“Damn it,woman.There’s

nostoppingthatthing.Itwillsoonrollrightoverus.”“Then we’ll all die

together, Frank. I’m notleaving.” She looked aroundher.“WhereistheCount?”Cobb grimaced. “He ran

away.IfIsurvivethis,I’llkillhim.”But Andropov had not

madearunforit.Hereturnedmounted on one of Kate’sbest horses, a stick ofdynamite in his hand. “It’sthe only one I have,” heyelledatKate.“Butitwillgetthejobdone.”Before anyone could

object, Andropov yelledsomething inRussian,kickedhis horse into motion, and

charged directly for theoncomingEmperor.He had covered half the

distancewhendisasterstruck.His horse wanted nothing todo with the noisy, smellymachineandreared,throwingAndropov from the saddle.For long moments, theRussian lay still on theground as theEmperor drewcloser to him, its enormousstudded wheels throwing upmassiveclodsofdirt.

But Andropov roseunsteadily to his feet andcharged directly for themachine, lighting thedynamiteasheran.“Get back here!” Cobb

yelled.But the Russian couldn’t

hear him.He ran directly forthe driver’s cabin, tossed thedynamite underneath, thentried to jump clear. His coatcaught on a projecting steamvalve and he fell heavily on

hisrightside.An instant later two things

happened. The dynamiteexploded under MarmadukeTweng’scabandthefrontleftwheel of the Emperor rolledover Andropov’s chest andcrushedittoascarlet,jellifiednightmareofbloodandbone.Killed instantly, Count IvanBoleslav diedwithout sound,farfromhisnativeMoscow.The dynamite didn’t even

slow the Emperor.

Remorselessly, the snarlingmachine came on as thoughno mortal power on earthcouldstopit.Kate Kerrigan witnessed

thecount’s terribledeathandwhispered, “Oh my God inheaven, help us.” Her handleft her rifle and took herrosaryfromherpocket.Cobbsawandquicklysaid,

“Later, Kate. When theshootingisdone.”Herosetohis feet and yelled,

“Everybody aim for the cab.Shoot thedriver.Kill thesonofagal!”Bullets rattled against the

reinforced glass ofMarmaduke Tweng’swindshield and one well-intentioned round actuallystarred the glass, but nonepenetrated. Tweng grinned.He’dspottedanothertarget... and it was out in the open.

HeswungtheEmperorintoaturn.

CHAPTERFIFTY-FOUR

MarcoSalaswashorrified.The devil machine wasdrivingstraightathiscannon.He stood and tried to wavethe monster away, but itdidn’t waver or slow itsspeed.Wearinggogglesandatop hat, the little man in the

cabin was hunched over thecontrols. On his presentcourse, he’d mangle thecannon into a pile of scrapironinjustacoupleminutes.Marcowasfastrunningout

oftime,buthetookoneofhismatches from his pocket andstruckitonthefiledchunkofironhekeptfor thatpurpose.The wood was thin andbrittle, and the match broke.He was stricken. “Madre deDios!”

Heglancedfearfullyat theloomingmachine,soclosehesaw the driver’s bared teeth.He tried a second match,holding the stick close to theblue head. It fired and hequickly lit the fuse. Todistract the driver, Marcojumpedtohisleft,awayfromthe cannon, and waved hisarms. He saw the grinningdriver make a slightadjustment to a set of leversandtheEmperormovedaway

from the cannon, bringing italmost on top of him. Theroarof themachinedeafenedMarco. He felt its heat andsmelleditsstinkingbreath...therankodorofdeath.Marco jumpedfor therise.

Too late! The same bloodywheel that had crushedAndropovtodeathcaughttheblacksmith’s left leg andpulped it flat from the kneedown, grinding bone andmuscledeepintotheearth.

Kate Kerrigan and theothers ran toward MarcoSalas.The machine began to

drive past him and Marcorealized he’d failed. Thecannonhadnotfired.Awaveof terriblepainhit

the littleMexican . . . justasthe cannon roared andjumpedthreefeetintotheair.The iron cannonball took

anerrantcourse.Itshothigh,missed the side of the

Emperor and veered right.Forafewmoments,itseemedthat the machine had againescapedunscathedasitrolledonward, seeking othervictims. In fact, the tiny ballhad caused massive, unseendestruction, like aninsignificant iceberg tearingout the bottom of a greatsteamship.The range was short and

the cannonball had retainedmost of its velocity. It

punctured the bottom of thefront plate of the furnace,dangerously thin to saveweight. The cannonballdeflected upward andpunched another eight-inchhole in the metal just abovetheoriginaldamage.A jet ofred-hot flame immediatelyshot into the interior of theEmperor and an instant laterthe boiler exploded, blowingout thewalls and roof of thequartersthathadoncehoused

Leah.Everythinginthelivingareas of the Emperor—furniture, wall panels,flooring, and ceiling tiles—burnedreadily.Scarlet lance-heads of fire and clouds ofboiling hot steam ravagedthrough the great machinefrom stern to stern, settingalight everything in theirpath.The Emperor Maximilian

shuddered to a halt . . . andSavannahSt. Jamesbegan to

burn.KaterantoMarco.The little blacksmith’s left

legwas crushed, and hewasin excruciating pain but stillconscious. He smiled as hesaid, “I done for it, didn’t I,MizKerrigan?”Kate smiled and pushed

Marco’s hair from hisforehead. “You surely did.Youwereverybrave.”

Marmaduke Tweng knew

the Emperor had suffered amortalwound.The array of dials in front

of him fluctuated wildly, thepointersmovinglikewaggingfingers. The steam valvesabove his head hissed likesnakesanddrippedhotwaterwhen they should havecarriedcold.Suddenly, the speaking

tube squawked to life andSavannah’s hysterical voicescreamed, “Mr. Tweng, letmeout!”“Right away, Miss St.

James.”Tweng jerkedon thesmall lever that locked andunlocked the doors.Nothing.The lever moved slackly inhishand.“Please Mr. Tweng!”

Savannah shrieked. “Unlockthedoors.”Unnerved, Tweng opened

his door and jumped. Whenhegotupheran . . . into thelowered rifle of a man withcold eyes and his finger onthetrigger.Tweng raised his hands

and yelled, “Please don’tshoot!I’manengineer!”The fire found Savannah

andshebegantoscream.Behind Kate, Cobb

watched.“Oh,myGod.”Red

flames reflected on his face.Beside him Trace lookedhorrified.Kate lookedat theburning

EmperorandsawwhatFrankand Trace saw. She gentlylaid Marco’s head on thegrassandrosetoherfeet.Savannah stoodbehind the

glass, her face close to thepane, long fingernails tearingat the unyielding reinforcedsurface in futility. She hadalwaysenviedKate’sredhair

but no longer had cause forenvy. Her hair was red as itburnedawayonherscalp.Katemade tomove closer

to the window, but Cobbstopped her. “No. It’s toodangerous.”She had no option but to

stand and watch the womanburn.Just before the end,

Savannah pushed herblackened face close to theglassandstaredout,her face

twisted, her teeth still whiteinhermouth.At first, Kate thought the

expression was one of pain.She realized she was wrongandsawitforwhatitwas...a look of pure, unadulteratedhatred. It was the face of ademon one could expect tomeet in the lower levels ofhell.Kate crossed herself, and

thenSavannahSt.Jameswasgone. A sudden flare of fire

marked the spot where herbodyfell.

CHAPTERFIFTY-FIVE

That afternoon, Dr. MaryFullerton, who’d neverattempted such surgerybefore, amputated whatremained of Marco Salas’slegbelowtheknee.Sheusedall the morphine she had forthe operation and had none

left.“Marco will have to

depend on whiskey to easehispainduringhisrecovery,”Mary said to Kate. “We’dbetterlayinagoodsupply.”“Yes . . . yes, I’ll see to

that,”Katesaiddistractedly.MaryputahandonKate’s

shoulder. “Don’t let thatawful woman still tormentyou after her death, Kate.Youmustletitgo.”Kate looked at Mary with

hauntedeyes.“Youdidn’tseeher face.Even as she burnedtodeath,shehatedme.”“Well,shedoesn’thateyou

now, does she?” Marypointed out somewhatcarefully.Kate shuddered. “I close

myeyesandstillseeherface.Shelookedevil,likeadevil.”“Hate is an evil emotion,

andmosttimesitdestroysthehater, just as it destroyedSavannah St. James.” Mary

smiled.“Soonyou’llseeyourdaughtersagainandthefacesof Ivy and Shannon will bethe ones you see when youcloseyoureyesatnight.”They heard a short knock

and the door to the doctor’stinycabinopened.Pete Slicer stepped inside,

smiled atMary, and touchedhis hat. “Good evening,doctor.”“Haveyoucometoseeme,

Pete?”Maryasked.

“Unfortunately, no. I havea question for Mrs.Kerrigan.”“Ask away, Mr. Slicer,”

Katesaid.“I’m the one that captured

the driver of that damned—beggin’ your pardon, Dr.Fullerton—machine. Do youwantIshouldshoothim?”Kate smiled. “No, leave

himfortheTexasRangers.”Slicer frowned. “He says

he’s an engineer. Is that a

goodthing?”“I suppose there are good

engineersandbadengineers,”Kate said. “MarmadukeTweng happens to be a badone.”Slicer was puzzled. “But

you don’t want me to plughim?”“No, Mr. Slicer. I don’t

want you to plug him,”Katerepeated.Slicer lookedas thoughhe

was about to leave, but he

hesitated. “I’m sorry aboutthe count, Mrs. Kerrigan. Iknowyousetstorebyhim.”“Yes, he was a nice man.

Hemademelaugh,especiallywhen he proposed marriagetomeeveryotherday.”“Me and your son Trace

and FrankCobbmade a boxfor him. It’s not much, butthen there’snotmuchofhimlefttobury.”Dr. Fullerton said, “Yes,

thank you, Pete. You can

leaveusnow.”After Slicer left, Mary

producedabottleofwhiskeyand two glasses. “I don’tknow about you, Kate, but Icoulduseadrink.”“I thinkIcouldusetwoor

maybethree.I’dliketoforgetthisdayeverhappened.”“Whydidn’tyoushootme,

Mr. Slicer?” MarmadukeTwengasked.

“Because Mrs. Kerrigantold me not to. She says tokeepyoufortheRangers.”Twengwaschained toone

oftheblacksmithshop’sroofsupports. He shook hismanacles. “Is this reallynecessary?”Slicer nodded. “It sure is.

Mrs. Kerrigan says you’re abadengineer.”“On the contrary, I’m a

fine engineer. That’s why Iwon’t hang, Pete. In these

moderntimes,goodengineersare hard to find. The wholeworld runsonsteamand I’mone of the few who knowhow to tame it. Thegovernment will not standidlybyandseemehang.”“Youkilledaman,Tweng,

and crippled another,” Slicersaid.“You’llswingallright.”“I wouldn’t be too sure

about that,” the little mansaid. “This great nation ofours needs steam-powered

airships, steam-poweredunderwater craft, steam-powered horseless carriages.Only engineers like me cansupplythosethings.”Slicer shook his head.

“Airships and horselesscarriages. You talk a lot ofnonsense, Tweng. If theRangers hear you speak likethat, they’ll stringyouup forsure.”

Frank Cobb and TraceKerrigan stood outside theburned-out hulk of theEmperor Maximilian in thewaningday.Ascorcheddoorhungopenonitsbrasshingesandfrominsidethestenchofburned flesh was a palpablething.“It’sstilltoohot,Frank.”Cobbshrugged.“It’sgotto

be done. Kate will expect acoffin.”“I don’t want to do this,

Frank.” Trace’s face bore anexpression of trepidation andhorror.“Idon’twantto,either.But

we can’t leave it to thewomenfolk.” Cobb smiledbriefly. “This is what yourmothercallsmen’swork.”Trace frowned. “She says

thataboutcowpunching.”“She says that about a lot

ofthings.Tightenyourbeltanotchandlet’sgetitdone.”Perhapstomakeupforhis

hesitation and lest Frankthink him a coward, Tracestepped through the opendoor first. The heat wasintense,theodorrank.Having nothing to prove,

Cobb stood outside the doorandsaid,“Whatdoyousee?”Tracemadenoanswer.“Move aside there, Trace.

I’m coming in.” Cobbsteppedinside.A slender column of

carbonized flesh and white

bone lay on the floor. Theskullwasintact;itsemptyeyesockets revealed nothing, butthe white, perfect teethgrinned.Cobb grimaced. “This is

whathellmust looklike.I’mgoing to start saying myprayers.”“I-think-that’s-another-

one-over-there,” Trace saidthen he bent over andvomitedviolently.Cobb gave him a push.

“Gooutside,Trace.Getsomefreshair.”Trace wiped his mouth

with the back of his hand.“I’llstick.”“It’s a body all right.”

Cobb nodded. “Hard to tell,but I think it’s anotherwoman.”“Whowasshe?”“Idon’tknow.MaybeKate

cantellus.We’llmakeapairof small coffins and comebackandshovelthisup.”

“I’m going out.” Tracehurriedoutside.Cobb lingered a little

longer. He would not havewished a death like this onanybody, even Savannah St.John.

CHAPTERFIFTY-SIX

A week later, in responseto a telegram sent by FrankCobb,theTexasRangerstookMarmaduke Tweng away.Before they left, theirsergeanttoldKatethatTwengwould most probably go totrial and that she and the

other eyewitnesses couldexpect to be called to giveevidence.Three weeks after the

Rangers, a pair of middle-aged army captains showedup and spent several hoursinspecting the wreckage ofthe Emperor Maximilian.They seemed less thanimpressed.Captain Forbes, an officer

with impressive handlebarwhiskersandawhiskeynose,

said to Kate, “I know howdistressingmyquestionsmustbeforyou,dearlady,butdidanyone take cannons out ofthemachine?”“There were no cannons,

Captain,” Kate said. “Morespongecake?”The officer brightened and

heldouthisplate.“IfearI’mimposingonyourhospitality,ma’am.As bachelor officers,I’m afraid Captain Hale andmyself do not often

experience the exquisite joyof sponge cake, especiallywhen served by such abeautifullady.”Kate smiled at the

compliment. “You are notimposingintheleast,sir.Idoenjoyseeingmeneat.”Captain Hale had soulful

brown eyes and no doubt, ahidden sadness. “The armyhas long been interested in asteam-driven fightingmachine that can carry

cannon, but the one thatattackedyourranchfallsveryshortofourexpectations.”Hesmiled under his mustache.“The Emperor Maximilianwas a clever clockwork toy,nomorethanthat.”Kate wanted to say that it

was a clockwork toy thatkilled one man and maimedanother, but she held herpeace. The minds of theofficers were made up andnothing she, a mere civilian,

couldsaywouldchangetheiropinion.The officers left with a

sponge cake for the trail andKatethoughtthatwastheendof it.But amonth later,onacold fall morning, two silentPinkertonsinbowlerhatsandlongwoolcoatsarrived.Like the army officers,

they inspected the wreckagebut ventured no reason fortheir visit and didn’t revealtheir conclusions. They

arrivedandweregoneinlessthanthirtyminutes.That night, Cobb reported

toKate on conditions on therange.Thegrasswasplentifulandthecattleseemedingoodshape. “Mose said they looklikethefatkineintheBible.. . but he’s always sayingstufflikethat.”“Mosesaysweneedtoget

rid of the wreckage on ourpasture.” Kate poured morecoffee in his cup. “He says

two women burned to deathin there and that it’s an evilthing.Didyounoticethatthecattledon’tgonearit?”“I guess we could hire

somebody to take it away,Kate.But it’s going to be anexpensiveproposition.”“Idon’tcare,Frank.Iwant

itgone.Iswear theghostsofSavannahSt.JamesandLeahstillhaunttheawfulthing.”Cobb nodded. “I’ll see to

it.”

“Please do. It brings backsometerriblememories.”Cobb brought in several

contractorswhoinspectedthemassive heap of scrap iron,rubbed their chins, thenrefusedthejob.“The word has gotten

around about what happenedhere,” one man said. “Noneofmymenwillworkon thishulk.”

And that’s where themattermighthaveremained...butduringthefirstdaysofwinter, the governmentarrived and everythingchanged.TheFederalsarrivedwitha

dozen heavy freight wagons,fifty men bearing anassortment of cutting tools,and an escort of an armyinfantrycompany.Despitetheshowofpower,

the man in charge was a

lowly clerk in the WarDepartment, accompanied bya stern, middle-aged femalesecretary who would laterlecture Dr. Fullerton on thelaxative virtues of prunejuice.The clerk’s name was

Atwood Mitchell and heproved to be affable enough.Sitting in Kate’s parlor, hetold her the wreck would becut into pieces and loadedontothewagons.“Itwillthen

be taken by rail toWashington for furtherstudy.”“Thegovernment’sinterest

surprises me, Mr. Mitchell.Especially since the armyshowednointerest.”“Ah, yes, butwe’re acting

on a recommendation by thePinkertons, Mrs. Kerrigan.The Pinkertons, more thanmost,realizethatwe’relivingin a technological age drivenby the power of steam. It

drivesourfactories,ourgreatoceangoing ships, ourpowerful locomotives, andsoon it will govern everyaspectofourlives.”Warmingtohissubject,Mitchelltookaquickgulpofcoffeeandsaid,“There is already talk inEurope, yes, and inWashington, that the lowerorders could be locked intheir factories while steampower supplies their everyneed by way of food,

clothing, and rudimentaryaccommodation. Think of it,Mrs. Kerrigan, the workingclass need never leave itsworkbenches except to eatandsleep.”“Idon’tthinkIwouldwish

to live in the kind of futureyou envision, Mr. Mitchell,”Katesaid,hereyesfrosty.“Well,ofcourse,not,Mrs.

Kerrigan. You are a lady ofmeansandbeefproductionisa necessary part of the plan.

Themassesmustbe fed,youknow.No,Iwastalkingonlyabout theworking poor.”Hesmiled. “Or, as the modernterminWashingtonhasit,thefactorypoor.”Oblivious toKate’smood,

Mitchell rose to his feet. “Athousand thanks for yourhospitality, dear lady. Now Imustseetomyworkmen.”Cobb, who had been

listening intently toMitchell’sspeech,feltamean

little pain in his belly. “Youknow if the man whoinvented that steammonstrosity outside has beenhung?”“Ohdearno,sir.Indeedhe

has not. That is, if you’rereferringtoMr.Tweng...orshould I say Sir MarmadukeTweng since Queen Victoriahasseenfit toknighthimforhis services to steamengineering.” Mitchellsmiled. “My dear sir, you

don’t hang engineers of SirMarmaduke’scaliber.”“You do know he killed a

man and crippled another,”Kate pointed out rathercoolly.“Water under the bridge,

gammonand spinach, asMr.Dickenssays.SirMarmadukeis back in Washington evenas we speak, working on asteam-powered balloon thatcan carry an entire ballroom,including an orchestra and

two hundred waltzers underits belly.” Mitchell’s voicetookonareverenttone.“He’sa genius indeed, is SirMarmaduke.”

CHAPTERFIFTY-SEVEN

Kate Kerrigan and FrankCobb stoodat adistance andwatched the EmperorMaximiliancuttopieces.Theday was chilly and for thefirst time in a year, Cobbworeasheepskinandshotgun

chaps.Katehadonapioneerbonnet and a heavy woolcloak.The wagons were fully

loaded and the machine allbut gone except for a fewscraps of metal and charredwood when Mitchell bent atthe waist, picked upsomething, and examined itclosely.Afterafewmomentshe stepped to Kate and said,“I found this on the ground,Mrs. Kerrigan. Did you lose

it, perhaps?” In the palm ofhishandwasagoldringwitha massive, bloodred rubystone. “If it had been in thesteamvehiclewhenitburned,I’msurethegoldwouldhavemelted.”Instinctively, Kate shrank

back from the ring. “It’s notmine.Itbelongedtoawomancalled Savannah St. James.Shediedinthefire.”“Ah, then perhaps you’d

liketohaveitasakeepsake,”

Mitchelloffered.Katelookedreadytoobject

but Cobb said, “I’ll take it.Mrs. Kerrigan is a littleoverwroughtatthemoment.”Mitchell nodded. “Yes, I

can understand that. Andnow, Mrs. Kerrigan, I mustbid you adieu. Thank youonce again for yourhospitality.”“You are most welcome,

Mr. Mitchell,” Kate said,giving him a little curtsy as

etiquette demanded. In fact,she thoroughly disliked theman.As the short day shaded

into evening, she and Cobbwatchedthewagonsleave.Kate turned to him, her

back stiff with anger, “Whydid you say I wasoverwroughtandwhydidyoutakethering?”“As to the first, I thought

you seemed upset,” Cobbsaid.

“Well, I wasn’t, Frank. Iwas glad to see that horriblething leave. And as to thesecond?”Cobb shook his head. “I

don’t know, Kate, I reallydon’t.”“How could you possibly

think I wanted a ring thatonce was on the finger ofSavannahSt.James?”“I . . . I didn’t. I don’t

knowwhatIthought.”“Chicken and dumplings

fordinnertonight,Frank.Areyoulookingforwardtoit?”Cobbsmiled.“Isuream.”“Well, you won’t get any

untilyougetridofthatring.”“I’ll chunk it away first

chanceIget.”“No, I have a better idea.

Comewithme.”A cold north wind swept

the cemetery on the rise asKate and Cobb made their

way to the most recentgraves.SavannahSt. James’sgrave was a little way fromtherest.Kate could not abide the

thought of her resting nearCount Andropov. Sheshivered. “This is where welaid her. One day I’ll get amarker for her. Let me havethering,Frank.”WhenCobbpassedittoher,shelaiditonthe grave. “Itwas hers.Nowshe’sgotitback.”

“Doyouthinksheknows?”Kate nodded. “She knows.

Whereversheis,sheknows.”“She was beautiful, you

know.”“Yes, you said that when

weburiedher.Andyouwereright. Savannah was abeautiful women.” Kateraised her pert nose andsmelled theair.“Ah,chickenand dumplings are in thewind.”“Good.I’mstarving.”

“Frank,thatfutureMitchellwas talking about. Will itcometopass?”“Kate,it’salreadyhere.”“But it won’t be our

future.”“Not a chance.” Cobb

wavedahand.“Our future isoutthereonthegrasswiththecattle.TheKerriganRanchisourfuture.”“Willwe have peace now,

doyouthink?”“Kate,itwillsoonbe1870.

Modern times. Savannah St.Jameswasthelastoftheold-timeyoutlaws.”“Ihopeso.”“I know so.” Cobb took

Kate’shandand theywalkedto the cabin, hungry forchicken and dumplings, andthewarmthof thefamilyandthefireinthegrate.

EPILOGUE

Overthenextcoupleyears,Kate Kerrigan prospered asher land and herds grew andshe became the mostimportant rancher in WestTexas. She soon abandonedthe little cabin and builtherself a fine house. It was

not yet as large as it wouldbecome, but two of itseventual four pillars werealreadyinplace.MarcoSalasforgedhimself

anornatepeglegofsteelandbrass thatevenhada slot forhisfavoritepocketwatch.Heexpanded his blacksmith’sshop and boasted to all thatwould listen that he had thefinestartificialleginTexas.Dr. Mary Fullerton left to

study surgery in Germany,

but she and Katecorresponded regularly. PeteSlicer sold his guns andfollowedher.Henry Brown later rode

withBilly theKid, becamealawman, and was lynchedafterabotchedbankrobbery.PeacecametotheKerrigan

Ranch but even as 1870arrived, dire and powerfulmen cast envious eyes onKate’sgreenpasturesand fatcattle. Once again, her sons

and Frank Cobb at her side,she would be forced to takeupthegunandfightforwhatwashers.

TURNTHEPAGEFORANEXCITINGPREVIEW

THEKERRIGANSATexasDynasty

TheFamilyThatTamedthe

WildWest!Inasprawlingnewsagathatembodiesthepioneerspirit,themastersoftheWesternintroducetheKerrigans,arough-and-tumbleclanof

pioneers,makingtheirownwayacross

darkestAmerica,ledbyawomanasferocious

astheTexassun.Astrong,beautifulmotherof

five,KateKerriganhasmadedosincelosingher

husbandinthebloodyBattleofShiloh.Now,twoyearsaftertheCivilWar,there’snothingleftfortheminTennesseebutpoverty

andbadmemories,soKatedecidesabetterlifeawaitstheminfar-offWestTexas.Thusbeginsa1,000-miletrekthroughsomeofthe

harshestandmostdangerousterritoryonthefrontier.By

pullingtogether,theKerrigansdiscovertheconvictiontoovercome

theunimaginablehardshipsandthestrengthof

spiritthatwillhelpthembuildoneofthelargest

cattleempiresinthehistoryoftheAmericanWest.

THEKERRIGANSATexasDynasty

BYWILLIAMW.JOHNSTONE

withJ.A.Johnstone

Onsalenow,whereverPinnacleBooksaresold.

CHAPTERONE

“You had to do it, MizKerrigan,” Sheriff MilesMartinsaid,hat inhand.“Hecamelookingfortrouble.”KateKerrigan stoodather

parlor window, stared intomoon-dappled darkness, andsaidnothing.“Imean,heplannedtorob

you, and after you fed him,an’all,”Martinsaid.Kate turned, a tall, elegant

woman.Heronceflamingredhair was now gray but herfine-boned,Celticbeautywasstill enough to turn a man’shead.ShesmiledatMartin.“Heplannedtomurderme,

Miles. Cover his tracks, Iguess.”“Where is Trace?” Martin

said.“Out on the range, and so

ishisbrother,”Katesaid.“And Miss Ivy and Miss

Shannon?”“My segundo’s wife is

birthing a child. DocWoodruff is off fly-fishingsomewhere, so Ivy andShannon went over to LucyCobb’s cabin to help. Lucyhas already had three, so Idon’tforeseeanyproblems.”Then as though she feared

she was tempting fate, KatesaidintheliltingIrishbrogueshe’dneverlost,“MayJesus,Mary, and Josephandall the

saints in heaven protect herthisnight.”“He was a city slicker,”

Martinsaid.The sheriff, a drink of

waterwithawalrusmustacheandsadbrowneyes,stood infront of the fire. He had aColtself-cockerinhisholsterandasilverstarpinnedtothefrontofhissheepskin.The fall of 1907 had been

cold and the winter wasshaping up to be a sight

worse.“He had the look of one,”

Katesaid.Martin looked

uncomfortable and awkward,all big hands and spurredboots. He chose his wordscarefully,likeabarefootmanwalking through a nettlepatch.“How did it happen, Miz

Kerrigan?Ineedtoask.”“Of course, Miles,” Kate

said. “Whydon’tyou sit and

I’llgetyouabrandy.Onlytokeep out the chill, youunderstand.”The big lawman sat

gratefully in the studdedleatherchairbythefire.“I’m right partial to

brandy,” he said. “Warms aman’sinsides,Ialwayssay.”Katepouredbrandyintwo

huge snifters, handed one toMartin, and settled herself inthechairopposite.The lawman thought she

satlikeaqueen,andwhynot?Kate’s range was larger thansomeEuropeankingdoms.Martinplayedfortime.He produced the makings

and said, “May I beg yourindulgence,ma’am?”“Please do.My sonQuinn

is much addicted tocigarettes, a habit he learnedfrom our vaqueros, whosmokelikechimneys.”“Doctors say it’s good for

thechest,”Martinsaid.

“SoI’veheard,butIdonotset store by what doctorssay.”Kate sipped her brandy,

and then stooped topoke thelogsintolife.Shedidn’tlookup.“I’ve killed men before,

Miles.”“Iknow,MizKerrigan,but

Iwastryingtospareyoualotoffoolquestions.”The woman’s emerald

green eyes fixed onMartin’s

face.“I’ll tell you what

happened here earlier thiseveningandyoucanaskyourquestionsasyouseefit.”Thelawmannodded.“I’d given the servants the

night off, and Iwas alone inthe house when I heard ahorsecometoahaltoutside.”“What time was that, Miz

Kerrigan?”“It was seven o’clock. I

was here, sitting by the fire

eating the cold supper thecook had prepared for me,and heard the grandfatherclockchimeinthehallway.Afew moments later a knockcametothedoor.”Kate’s blue silk day dress

rustled as she sat back andmade herself morecomfortable.“I answered the summons

and opened to a man, anordinary looking fellowwearing an old dark jacket

that was several sizes toolarge for him. He had noovercoat; the evening wascoldandheshivered.“He said he was hungry

and could I spare him a biteoffood?SinceI’dnokitchenstaff available, I opened thedoor and let him comeinside.”“That was a mistake, Miz

Kerrigan,”Martinsaid.Katesmiled.“Miles,over theyears I’ve

letmanymenintothishouse.Geronimo once sat whereyou’resitting.Wehadteaandcake and he wanted to talkaboutoldQueenVic.”The lawman stirred

uncomfortably in his chairand glanced over hisshoulder, as though heexpected to see the oldApache’s ghost glowering athimfromacorner.“Well,I ledthewaytothe

kitchenandthemanfollowed

me. He said his name wasTomandthathewaslookingfor ranch work. He had themost singular eyes, rathermean and foxy, like those Iused to see in some Texasgunmenbackintheolddays.I must admit, I did not trusthim.”“You did right,” Martin

said. “Not trusting him, Imean.”“Thank you, Miles. I’m

sureyourapprovalwillstand

me ingood stead shouldyouconsiderhangingme.”“Miz Kerrigan! I have no

intention . . . I mean . . . Iwouldn’t...”Kate gave the flustered

lawmanadazzlingsmile.“There, there,Miles, don’t

distress yourself. I’m certainthe facts of the case willspeak for themselves andbanish all doubt from yourmind.”“Yes, yes, I’m sorry.

Pleaseproceed.”Martin was fifty years old

andKateKerrigancould stillmakehimblush.“Ifixedthemansomebeef

sandwiches, and indeed, hewas as wolf hungry as heprofessed,”Katesaid.“Itwasafter he’d eaten heartily thatthingstookadangerousturn.”“Was the sugar scattered

alloverthekitchenfloorpartofit?”Martinsaid.“Indeed it was. A small

sugar sack had been left onthecounterbyacarelessmaidand Tom, if that was reallyhisname—”“Itwasn’t,”Martinsaid.Kate looked at him in

surprise.“Please go on, Miz

Kerrigan,”thelawmansaid.“Well,themanjumpedup,

grabbed the sugar sack, andthrew the contents over thefloor. He shoved the emptysackatmeandsaid,‘You,fill

this. The jewels you’rewearingfirst.’”“‘Mister,’” I said, “‘I’ve

been threatened by moredangerous bad men thanyou.’”Martin reached into the

pocket of his coat andwithdrewarevolver.“Then he drew this on

you.”Kateglancedatthegun.“Yes, that’s it, a Hopkins

&Alleninthirty-twocaliber.

Hesaidtofillthesackorhe’dscattermybrains.”“Oh, Miz Kerrigan, you

must have been terrified,”Martinsaid.Kateshookherhead.“Miles, you’ve known me

howlong?Thirtyyears?Youshould remember by now Idon’t scare easily.” Shefrowned. “And for God’ssake,callmeKate.YounevercalledmeanythingelseuntilIgot this big house and eight

hundred thousand acres ofrangetogowithit.”Now it was the lawman’s

turntosmile.“Kate it is, and you’re

right, you never did scareworth a damn, beggin’ yourpardon.”“Ialsousedtocuss,Miles,

beforeIbecamealady.”“You were always a lady,

Kate.Evenwhenallyouhadtoyournamewasacabinanda milk cow and a passel of

young’uns.”Katenodded.“Hard times inTexasback

inthosedaysafterthewar.”“We’llwind itup,”Martin

said. “It’s growing late andI’m only going through themotionsanyhow.”“The fact remains that I

killed a man tonight, Miles.It’s your duty to hear meout.”Kate rose, poured more

brandyfromthedecanterinto

the lawman’s glass and thenherown.She sat by the fire again

and said, “When the manpointedthegunatme,I tookoffmynecklaceandbraceletsanddroppedtheminthesack.Hewantedmywedding ring,but I refused. When helooked at it and saw it wasbut a cheap silver band, hedemanded the expensivestuff.“I told him I kept my

jewelry in my bedroom andhe toldme to takehimthere.He also made an extremelycrude suggestion and vowedhe’dhavehiswaywithme.”“The damned rogue,”

Martin said, his mustachebristling.“In my day I’ve heard

worsethanthat,butrightthenIknewIwasinrealdanger.”Kate’s elegant fingers

strayed to the simple crossthat now hung around her

neck.“There’s not much left to

tell, Miles. I played thepetrified,hystericalmatrontoperfectionandwhenwewentupstairs I told therobber thatmyjewelswereinmydresserdrawer.”Katesmiled.“How often men are

undone by their lusts. Thewretch was so intent onunbuttoning the back of mydress that he didn’t see me

reach into the dresser drawerand produce—not diamonds—but my old Colt forty-four.”“Bravo!” Martin said,

liftinghisbooted feet off therugandclickinghisheels.“I wrenched away from

him,leveledmyrevolver,andordered him to drop his gun.His face twisted into a mostdemonicmask and he cursedandraisedhisgun.”“The murderous rogue!”

Martinsaid.“I fired,” Kate said. “John

Wesley Hardin once toldmeto belly shoot aman and I’ddrop him in his tracks. Ifollowed Wes’s advice—theonly bit of good advice heever gave me or mine—andhit the bandit where arespectable man’s watch fobwouldhavebeen.”“But he got off a shot,”

Martin said. He reached intohis pocket again and held up

the spent .32. “Dug it out ofyourbedroomwall.”“Yes,hegotoffashot,but

he was already a dead man.He dropped to the floor,groaned for a few moments,and then all the life in himleft.”“Kate, you’ve been

through a terrible ordeal,”Martinsaid.“I’ve been through it

before, Miles. The man whocame here was intent on

rapingandrobbingme.Ifighttokeepwhatismine,whetherit’sadiamondringorasinglehead of cattle. I’ve hangedrustlers and other men whowouldthreatenCiarogan,andasGodasmywitness I’ll doitagainifIhaveto.”Sheriff Martin’s eyes

revealed that he believedevery word Kate had justsaid.He’d known some tough,

fighting ranchers, but none

even came close to KateKerrigan’s grit anddetermination.She’dbuiltanempire,then

held it against all comers, anamazoninpetticoats.Martinbuiltacigaretteand

without looking up from themakings,hespoke.“HisnamewasFrankRoss.

He’d served five years of alifesentenceinHuntsvilleformurder and rape when hekilled a guard and escaped.

He later murdered a farmerand his wife near Leesvilleand stole three dollars and ahorse.”Martinlithiscigarette.“Thenhecamehere.”“Miles,whydidn’tyoutell

me all this before?” Katesaid.“After what you’ve gone

through, I didn’t want toalarmyou.”Martinreadthequestionon

thewoman’s faceandshrank

from the green fire in hereyes.ShehadanIrishtemper,did Kate Kerrigan, and thesheriffwantednopartofit.“I got a wire a couple of

days ago from the Leesburgmarshal and he warned thatRoss could come this way,”he said. “I never thought itcouldhappenthewayitdid.”“Itdidhappen,”Katesaid.“Yes, Kate, I know, and

I’msorry.”Martinrosetohisfeet.

“I’llbegoingnow.Oneofmy deputies took the bodyaway.Youshouldknowthat.I’llseemyselfout.”Thebiglawmansteppedto

thedoor,hisspurschiming.He stopped and said, “My

respectstoyourfinefamily.”“And mine to Mrs.

Martin.”Martinnodded.“I’ll be sure to tell her

that.”

Kate Kerrigan had

defended herself and herhonor, just another battle tostandalongsideall theothersthathadgonebefore.But the killing of Frank

Rosshungheavyonher,andshe felt the need forcloseness, to hold somethingher husband, dead so manyyears,hadtouched.Allshehadwastheringon

her finger . . . and the letter

thathadbegunitall.Kate walked to her office,

unlocked the writing bureau,and took the worn, yellowedscrapofpaperfromadrawer.She returned to the parlor,

pouredherselfbrandy,andsatagainbytheashyfire.After a while, she opened

theletterandreaditagainforperhapsthethousandthtime.. . the letter thathadfoundedadynasty.

CHAPTERTWO

In April 1862, on the eveof a battle that would passinto American legend, abarefoot Johnny Reb handedasealedlettertoanother.“You’ll give it to her,

Michael,giveitintothehandofmyKate,”JosephKerriganof Ireland’s green and fairCountySligosaid.“AndwhywouldI, Joseph

Kerrigan?” Michael Feeny

said. “When you’ll be ableenough to give it to heryourself.”Kerrigan, a handsome

young man with eyes thecolor of a Donegal mist,shookhishead.“That I will not,” he said.

“Didyounothear ityourselfin thenight,out thereamongthepines?”“Hear what?” Feeny said,

his puzzled face freckled alloverlikeasparrow’segg.

“The banshee, Michael.Shescreamedmyname.Overandover again, coming fromherskullmouth,myname...myname...”“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph

and Saints Peter and Paul, itcannot be so, Joseph. Youheard the wind in the trees,onlythewind.”“You’llgivemyKatherine

the letter,” Kerrigan said.“She’s a strong woman, andafter she reads it she’llknow

what to do.And tell her thisalso, that her husband fellfightingforanoblecauseandbrought no disgrace to hisname.”“And it’s an ancient and

honorable name you bear,JosephKerrigan, tobe sure,”Feeny said. “You say youheard thebanshee, and Iwillnot call you a liar, but shescreamsforsomeoneelse,notyou.Manymenwill die thisdayandthenext.”

“AndIwillnumberamongthem,”Kerrigansaid.Heshovedthefoldedletter

intoFeeny’shands.“As you see it is sealed,

Michael.CaptainO’Neilusedhisowncandleandimpressedthe molten wax with thesignetoffhisfinger.Andwhynot, since I have no ring ofmy own and the captain’sbears the crest of Irishkings?”The two young soldiers

marched together, theswaying, shambling,distance-eating tramp of theConfederateinfantry.Their regiment, the 52nd

Tennessee, was part ofBraxton Bragg’s SecondCorps of the Army of theMississippi, and therewasn’tamanwhoshoulderedariflethat day who didn’t believethat he could take on theentire Yankee army byhimself and send them

runningallthewayacrossthePotomac.“I’m charging you with a

great duty, Michael,”Kerrigan said. “That letteryou bear so carelessly tellsKatherine what she and ourchildren must do to go onwithout me, and, if need be,whereshecanfindhelptodoit.”Michael Feeny thrust the

letterbacktowardKerrigan.“No need for it,” he said.

“Giveittoherfromyourownhandwhenallthisisdone.”“When all this is done, I

will be done as well,”Kerrigan said. “Think you,Michael, that the bansheecriesfornoreason?”“Amanknowsnotthehour

of his death, Joseph. If hecould,whatmanwouldwalkblindly into the path of agalloping carriage or cross arailroad track at the wrongmoment?”

Feeny doffed his kepi andwiped sweat from his browwiththebackofhishand.“The banshee is a demon,

but God is with us, Joseph.Ah man, you will bearwhatever message you haveto your Katherine upon yourownlips.”“It will not be, Michael. I

have no desire to die on thefield of honor, but I amconfidentthatismyfate.Buteven so, I hope so very

powerfully that I am wrongandyouareright.Deathisnoboon companion whosecompanyIseek.”Feeny grinned, and placed

the kepi at a jaunty anglebackonhishead.“Remember this one?” he

said.Hetiltedbackhisheadand

sang.

“Oh,mynameis GeorgeCampbelland at the ageofeighteenIfoughtforoldErinherrightstomaintain,And many abattle did Iundergo,Commandedby that hero

calledGeneralMunroe.”

Abig,grizzledsoldierwithcorporal’s stripes tappedFeeny on the shoulder andgrinned.“And didn’t we English

stick his honor’s head on apikeatLisburncastle?”“Aye you did, and be

damned to ye,” Feeny said.

“Youshouldbemarchingforthe Tyrant, Englishman, andnotfortheSouth.”The big man laughed and

saidnomore.“Well, that’s taken the

song from my lips,” Feenysaid. “Let us then keep hopebefore us instead. Make nopredictionofyourowndoom,Joseph. Walk bold and tallintowhateversoldiers’hellisahead for us, and come outalive on the other end.

Perhapsbothofuswillcomeouttogether.”“Aye, perhaps. But I

cannot presume uponprovidence when myconviction is so strong. So Iaskyou to bear this letter onyour body through the fightahead.Ihaveanothercopyofthe same inside my ownjacket, in caseyou shouldbetaken away in battle alongwith me. Sometimes thoseletters are found and sent on

to the families after the deadarecarriedfromthefield.”“All this woeful talk falls

far shy of prudence, JosephKerrigan. My sainted oldgrandmother toldme that thethingswe speak go toGod’sear,andHesometimescausesthemtocometopass.Sotalkoflife,notdeath.”“Verywell. IfGod iskind

tobothofus,wewillrejoice.But if I should die and youlive, then I askyou togo, as

first opportunity allows, toNashvilleandpresentittomybelovedandtellhermyspiritwill watch over her all herdays.Idon’ttrustthearmytogetthelettertoher.You,Idotrust.”Feeny was ready to argue

furtherwithKerrigan.Hedidnot, though, instead merelylayinghishandbrieflyontheother’s shoulder. “I give youmy promise, good Joe. Iexpect never to be called on

to fulfill it, but if fate bringsill to you and I survive, Ipledge to you that your wifewill receive from my ownhandwhatyou’vegivenme.Ivow it on the grave of mysaintedmother.”Kerrigan turned to his

companion, shifting his rifleslingashedidso.“Your mother is alive and

well,Mike.”“And so she is, hale and

heartyandas fondof thegin

asever.Buthergrave,or theplace it will be, existssomewhere, empty for now,anditisthatgraveonwhichIvowed.”“Youareanoddoldcrow,

Mike. An odd crow, or thedeviltakeme.”“I am odd, and know it.

Butalsotrustworthy.Youcancount on me to carry thatlettertoNashvilleifitfallstometodoit.”“Iknowitwillnotbeeasy,

my friend. The federals tookNashvilleinFebruary.Travelin these times is no Sundaystroll.”“Aye. Even so, Joe. Even

so.”Joseph Kerrigan nodded

and blinked fast, hard-foughtemotion struggling insidehim.Hemanaged tochoke itback and respond with asimple:“Thankyou,Mike.”“Thinknothingofit.There

willbenothingforme todo,

becausewewill live throughthis fight, you and I. Letmehearyousayit,Joseph.”“We will . . . will live

through this fight. Both ofus.”“Ayeindeed,andcomeout

the other end heroes, with agoldmedalonourchests.”“That’s how it will be,

Michael, lay to that.” Butthere was no conviction inKerrigan’svoice.

AllJosephKerriganwould

experience of the famedBattle of Shiloh, whichcommenced early the nextmorning, was a series ofevents that entered hisconsciousness in a troublingjumble, running together,bleedingoneintotheotherinawelterofconfusionitwouldrequire much time tountangle.No such time would be

givenhim.In the brief period he had

left to know anything at all,Joe Kerrigan would beimmediately conscious ofonly a few things, beginningwith the feeling of his ownheartpoundingasif tryingtoexit his chest when the callcame from the orderlysergeant to check armamentsandpreparetoadvance.Kerrigan would be aware,

in a distant, numbedway, of

standingandadvancingintoarising crackle and blast ofrifle fireandartillerybeyondthe cannon-blasted forestahead of him. The foe hadawakenedandwasbeginningto resist the advancingBonnieBlueFlag.Mike Feeny was still at

Kerrigan’s side, and said,“Joe, I’m going to makeanothervowtoyou.Onedayyou and I will return to thisverybitofwoodsandenjoya

picnic here with our wivesandchildren.Theseareprettywoods, except for what ishappening here. It would bean idealplace for children toplay,don’tyouthink?”“Itwould,Mike,ofatruth.

ButIwillmakenoplansuntilI know if what the bansheefated for me is truth ordeception.”“Live,myfriend.Live.Let

death take others, but uslive.”

They advanced, drawingcloser to gunfire unseen butloudlyheardaheadofthem.Even now Kerrigan could

see nothing he could makesenseof,thoughthesoundofthe fight heightened and thescreams of dying men grewlouder.Then he heard a puzzling

rustling and rattling in thetrees,arepeatedtick-tick-ticksound, followed by a showerofleavesandsmalltwigs.

The ticking, like thesoundof rain dripping from eavesafterasummerthunderstorm,came from soft lead Miniéballs striking trees, theclattering and crackling anddownfall of greenery frombullets clipping branches andtwigs,denuding trees alreadystruggling to fight off thebarrenness of thewinter pastand clothe themselves forspring.A man walking to

Kerrigan’s left grunted andfell, blood streaming downthe front of his leg, pouringfrom a fresh wound. A biggrizzled Englishman, hecollapsed, groaning, andmade only one effort to rise.A second Minié ball caughthiminthechestandsenthimflat to the ground, a red roseblossoming in the middle ofhisbutternutshirt.“Holy Mother Mary bless

us and save us!” Feeny said,

horrified, as he watched thecorporalfall.Kerrigan glanced at Feeny

as two other men near themdropped,onewounded in theshoulder, the other shotthroughthechestanddead.“This is hot work,

Michael,” he said. “But suchafirecannotlastforlong.”But the hail of gunfire

sheeting toward theadvancing Confederate lineincreased.

The thumping of leadhitting trees and men wasnow so steady as to drownout the sound of twigs andbranches being clipped,though they drifted to theground in an unceasingshower.A command from

somewhere just behind theline thenordered the soldierstotakeshelterfromthefire.“They’rekillingus,boys!”

the officer yelled. “Down on

yourbellies.”Kerrigan recognized the

fine Irish voice of CaptainO’Neil,butitwashoarseandbrokenby shouting, inhumanstress,andfear.He, Feeny, and several

others around them tookcover behind the white,skeletal trunk of a fallen oakand there breathed the gaspsofterrifiedmen.Butatleasttheycouldstill

breathe,andforthatKerrigan

voiced a silent prayer ofthanks.He turnedonhisbackand

reloaded his rifle; surprisedthe hand working powder,ballandramrodwassteady.“This ain’t really safe,”

said a deeply southern voiceon the far side of Feeny.“This here log humps up onthe bottom side so there’s aspace between it and theground, see? Get down lowenough and you can look

rightunder.Abullethits thatgapandit’sgoingtosailrightthroughand—”Themansaidnomore.His words about the

protective deficiency of thewarped log had beenprophetic. He took a bulletthrough the face, itsdestructive course anglingdown from his foreheadthrough sinuses and throat,lodging finally somewhere inhischest.

“Jesus,Mary,andJoseph,”Feenywailed.“Willyoulookat poor Anderson all shotthroughandthrough?”Hefingeredablackrosary,

blessed by a cardinal, andsounded like a man about toburstintotears.“You were right, Joe . . .

wewilldiehere,”hesaid.Kerrigan’s earlier morbid

convictions about death hadbeen all but forgotten afterthefirstshotswerefired.

He was scared, noquestion, but above andbeyond that he was angry,filledwithabitingfuryattheveryideathatmenhedidnotknow, and against whom hehad done no violence, weretryingtokillhim.A vision of his beautiful

wife, Kate, rose in his mindand he vowed to her imagethat, dire premonitions bedamned, he would fight tolive,andreturntoherside.

Feeny, battling terror,provedthathehadsand.Andbesides, as he was wellaware,didnothisnamemean“bravesoldier”intheancientGaelic?Hemoved upward a little,

leveledhisrifleacrossthetopofthelog,andtookaiminthegeneral direction of thefederals.The action inspired

Kerrigan to do the same,thoughneitherof themhada

precisetargetsighted.Kerrigan defied fate and

lifted his head above theprotective height the logprovided,readyingtofire.Then,inasingleinstantof

time...therewasnothing.In darkness and without

pain, Kerrigan collapsedpartiallyontopofFeeny, theMinié ball that had shatteredhis skull lodged deep insidehisbrain.Hehadnotheard theblast

of his own rifle or knownwhether he had evenmanagedtofireit.Nordidhefeelhimselfdie.Therehadbeenno time to

feelorknowanything.Joseph Kerrigan had

merely stepped through adoorwayintoeternity.“Joseph? Can you hear

me?”Feenysaid.Heknewtherewouldbeno

answer.Morealoneinthemidstof

a roaring battlefield than hehad ever felt in his mostsolitarymoments, Feenywasused up. Every man has alimit,andhe’dreachedhis.Hispanicbecamemindless

and he pushed Kerrigan’smutilated corpse away fromhim.Against all the dictates of

logic and common sense,Feeny turned to run as if he

could outpace the flyingbulletschasinghim.Hecouldnot,ofcourse.Feenyfeltsomethinglikea

sledgehammer crash into thesmall of his back, and hepitched forward, momentumslamming his face hard intothe bloodstained earth. Hegroaned, tried to stand, andfeltasearingpaininhisrightleg.Lookingdown,he sawanightmare of blood andshattered bone before he

collapsedontotheground.Then all went quiet and

still and he neither saw norheard.ForMichaelFeeny, lateof

County Mayo, Ireland, theBattleofShiloh,justaborningintohistory,wasover.

CHAPTERTHREE

Kate Kerrigan rose fromher chair and returned her

husband’slettertoherwritingdesk.Ithadbeenbrought,no,the

wordwassmuggled,toherbyMichael Feeny, who arrivedin Nashville more dead thanalive from a wound receivedatShiloh.She’d been poor then, and

all the poorer for herhusband’sdeath,butKatehada family to care for andplaying the weeping widowand living off the charity of

others had never entered herthinking.Still, it had been a long,

long timesinceshe’dfilledabucket with water, soap, andascrubbingbrush.The blood of the dead

robber and would-be rapiststill stained her bedroom rugand she could not abide thethoughtofitremainingthere.Shewas at the foot of the

grand staircase, bucket inhand, when someone

slammed the brassdoorknocker hard . . . once,twice,threetimes.Kate’s revolverwas in the

parlor and she retrieved it,thenreturnedtothedoorasaman’s hand—for surely awoman would not haveknocked so loudly?—hammeredtheknockeragain.“Whoisit?”Katesaid,her

voice steady.The triple clickof her Colt was loud in thequiet. “I warn you I put my

faithinforty-fives.”A moment’s pause, then,

“Miz Kerrigan, it’s me,ma’am,HiramStreet,aseverwas.”Kate recognized the voice

of one of her top hands andunlockedthedoor.“Comeinside,Hiram,”she

said.Street was a short, stocky

man with sandy hair andbrighthazeleyes.He was a good, steady

hand with a weakness forwhiskeyandwhores,butKatedidnotholdthatagainsthim.“I was on my way back

from town and met SheriffMartinonthetrailandhetoldme what happened,” Streetsaid.“I rodehereas fastas Icould to see if you neededhelp.”Kate pretended to be

annoyed.“Runningmyhorsesagain,

Hiram?”

“Well, I figgered this wasanemergency,MizKerrigan,beggingyourpardon.”The cowboy wore a

mackinawandawoolmufflerover his hat, tied in a hugeknotunderhischin.Helookedfrozenstiff.“Were you drinking at the

HappyRebagain?”Katesaid.“I can tell you no lie,

ma’am.Isurewas,butIonlyhad but two dollars and thatdon’t go far at Dan Pardee’s

prices.”“ComeinandI’llgetyoua

drink, Hiram. You look ascoldasabarowner’sheart.”“Dan Pardee’s anyway,”

Street said as he steppedinside.He looked around at the

marble,goldandredvelvetofCiarogan’svastreceivinghalland said, “I ain’t never beenin the big house before,ma’am.Takesaman’sbreathaway.”

Katesmiled.“Itwasn’talways like this,

Hiram,backintheday.”“You mean when you fit

Comanches, Miz Kerrigan. Iheardthat.”Katenodded.“Comanches, Apaches,

rustlers, claim jumpers,gunmen of all kinds andambitions, even MexicanbanditsraidingacrosstheRioGrande. Yes, I fought themall and killing one never

troubledmysleepatnight.”“Maybe that’s why I’m a

mite uneasy about that thereiron you got in your hand,ma’am,”Streetsaid.“Oh, sorry, Hiram.” Kate

smiled and let the revolverhang by her side. “Pleasecomeintotheparlor.”Street, with that solemn

politeness punchers havearound respectable women,and with many a “Beggin’your pardon, ma’am,” asked

if he could remove his hatandcoat.“Andshould I takeoffmy

spurs, Miz Kerrigan?” hesaid.“Idon’twant to scratchyourfurniture,like.”“My sons don’t take them

off, so I don’t see why youshould,”Katesaid.“Ciarogan is sure quiet

tonight, ma’am,” Street said,accepting a chair and then abourbon. “That’s why thatno-good saddle tramp came

here.”“Asyouknow,mysonsare

out on the range andMissesIvy and Shannon are helpingLucy Cobb give birth. I alsogave the servants the nightoff.”“Got fences down

everywhere, but Mr. Tracetold me to stay to home onaccountyou’dbeherealone,”Street said. “I’m real sorry Ileft,MizKerrigan.”“How were you to know

what would happen thisevening, Hiram? Though I’llmake no fuss about yourlapse this time, don’t do itagain.”“Never,ma’am,Iswearit.”“Then we’ll let the matter

drop.I’lltellTracethatIsentyouintotownonanerrand.”“I appreciate that, ma’am.

He has a temper, has Mr.Trace.”“Ah, he takes after me,”

Katesaid.

Street hurriedly took a sipof his whiskey and saidnothing.Then, “Miz Kerrigan, I

haven’t been riding forCiaroganlong,butI’dliketohearabouthowitallstarted.”Street smiled. “You got theonly four-pillar plantationhouseinTexas,Ireckon.”“I doubt that,” Kate said.

“But I started with a smallcabinandathousandacresofscrub,”Katesaid.

Street spoke into thesilencethatfollowed.“Ma’am, I’d like to hear

the story of how you gothere.”“Really, Hiram? Do you

want to hear my story or doyou like being close to theOld Crow bottle and warmfire?”Street’s smile was bright

andgenuine.“Truth to tell, both,” he

said. “But I’m a man who

lovesagoodstory.Ifiggertoget educated some day andbecome one of them dimenovelauthors.”“Averylaudableambition,

Hiram,”Katesaid.She thought for a few

moments, then said, “Verywell, I won’t sleep tonightafter what happened and theservants won’t be back untillate, so I’ll tell you the storyof Ciarogan and what wentbefore.”

Katesmiled.“Butyouhaveto sing for your supper,Hiram.”“Ma’am?”“There’sabucketofwater

and scrubbing brush at thefootofthestairs,andIhavearuginmybedroomthatneedscleaning.”Street had the puncher’s

deep-seateddreadofworkhecouldn’tdooff thebackof ahorse, butMiz Kerrigan wasnotawomantobedenied.

“Followme,”shesaid.Street grabbed the soapy,

sloppingbucketandfollowedKateupthestaircase,hisfacegrim,likeamanclimbingthestepstothegallows.Wide-eyed, the cowboy

staredatthebloodstainedrug.“Him?”hesaid.“Him.”“Gutshot,ma’am?”“I didn’t take time to see

wheremybullethit.”“But look at the rug, Miz

Kerrigan.”“I see it, Hiram. That’s

whyyou’rehere.”“But, ma’am, it looks like

MilesMartinandhisdeputiestramped blood everywhere.The tracks of big policemanfeetareallovertherug.”“Thenyouhaveyourwork

cutout foryou,Hiram.Haveyounot?”Street made a long-

suffering face, like arepentantsinner.

“This isbecauseI rodeoffand left you alone, MizKerrigan.Ain’tit?”Katesmiled.“Why Hiram, whatever

gaveyouthatidea?”After an hour, many

bucketsofwater, and agooddeal of muttered cursing,Hiram Street threw the lastbucketfulofpink-tintedwateroutside and returned to the

parlor.“All done, Miz Kerrigan,”

hesaid.Kate put aside the volume

of Mr. Dickens she’d beenreadingandrosetoherfeet.“I’lltakealook,”shesaid.Katecastacriticaleyeover

thewet rugandsaid,“There,Hiram, in the corner. Youmissedaspot.”“Sorry, ma’am,” Street

said.He got down on his knees

and industriously scrubbedthe offending stain with theheel of his hand. The spotwas only the size of a dime,butKate’s eagle eyesmissednothing.“Very well, Hiram,” she

said. “Now,we’ll let the rugdry. I’ll use one of the guestroomsforafewdays.”Once the chastened

cowboy was again sitting bythefire,aglassofwhiskeyinhand,Katesmiledathim.

“Do you still wish to hearthe story of Kate Kerrigan,herlifeandtimes?”Street settled his shoulders

intotheleatherandnodded.“Isuredo,ma’am.”“I’ll tell you of my early

days,when just staying alivewas a struggle. To relate allthat’spassed in the last fortyyears would be too long inthetelling.”Kate flashed her dazzling

smileandcontinuedtodoso.

“I’m sure there’s enoughmaterial in the story of myyounger days for a hundreddimenovels,”shesaid.“Beggin’ your pardon,

Ma’am,butI’meagertohearthe tale of Kate Kerrigan,”Streetsaid.“Then,Hiram,youshallat

leasthearsomeofit.”

J.A.JohnstoneonWilliamW.

Johnstone“PrinttheLegend”

WilliamW.JohnstonewasborninsouthernMissouri,theyoungestoffourchildren.Hewas raisedwith strongmoral

and family values by hisminister father, and tutoredby his schoolteacher mother.Despitethis,hequitschoolatagefifteen.“Ihave thehighest respect

for education,” he says, “butsuchisthefollyofyouth,andwanting to see the worldbeyondthefourwallsandtheblackboard.”True to this vow, Bill

attempted to enlist in theFrench Foreign Legion (“I

saw Gary Cooper in BeauGestewhenIwasakidandIthought the French ForeignLegion would be fun”) butwas rejected, thankfully, forbeing underage. Instead, hejoined a traveling carnivalanddidallkindsofoddjobs.Itwaslisteningtotheveterancarny folk, some of whomhadbeen on the circuit sincethe late 1800s, tellingamazing tales about theirexperiences, that planted the

storytelling seed in Bill’simagination.“They were mostly honest

people, despite the badreputation traveling carnyshows had back then,” Billremembers.“Ofcourse, therewere exceptions. There wasone guy named Picky, whogotthatnamebecausehewasa master pickpocket. Hecould steal a man’s socksrightoffhis feetwithouthimknowing. Believe me, Picky

got us chased out of morethanafewtowns.”Aftera fewmonthsof this

grueling existence, Billreturned home and finishedhighschool.Nextcamestintsas a deputy sheriff in theTallulah, Louisiana, Sheriff’sDepartment, followed by ahitchintheU.S.Army.Thenhe began a career in radiobroadcasting at KTLD inTallulah, which would lastsixteen years. It was there

that he fine-tuned hisstorytelling skills. He turnedto writing in 1970, but itwouldn’t be until 1979 thathis first novel, The Devil’sKiss, was published. Thusbegan the full-time writingcareer of William W.Johnstone. He wrote horror(TheUninvited),thrillers(TheLastoftheDogTeam),evenaromance novel or two.Then,inFebruary 1983,Out of theAshes was published.

Searching for his missingfamily in a postapocalypticAmerica,rebelmercenaryandpatriot Ben Raines is unitedwith the civilians of theResistance forces and movesto the forefront of arevolution for the nation’sfuture.Out of the Ashes was a

smash. The series wouldcontinue for the next twentyyears, winning Bill threegenerations of fans all over

the world. The series wasoften imitated but neverduplicated. “We all tried tocopy the Ashes series,” saidone publishing executive,“but Bill’s uncanny ability,boththenandnow,topredictin which direction thepoliticalwindswere blowingbrought a certain immediacytothetablenooneelsecouldcapture.” The Ashes serieswould end its runwithmorethan thirty-four books and

twentymillioncopiesinprint,making it one of the mostsuccessfulmen’sactionseriesinAmericanbookpublishing.(The Ashes series also, Billnotes with a touch of pride,got him on the FBI’sWatchListforitslessthanflatteringportrayal of spinelesspoliticians and the growingpower of big governmentover our lives, among otherthings.Inthatrespect,Ioftenfindmyselfsaying,“Billwas

yearsaheadofhistime.”)Always steps ahead of the

political curve, Bill’s recentthrillers,writtenwithmyself,include Vengeance Is Mine,Invasion USA, Border War,Jackknife, Remember theAlamo, Home Invasion,PhoenixRising,TheBloodofPatriots, The Bleeding Edge,and the upcoming SuicideMission.It is with the western,

though, that Bill found his

greatestsuccess.Hiswesternspropelled him onto both theUSATodayandtheNewYorkTimesbestsellerlists.Bill’s western series

includeMattJensen, theLastMountainMan,Preacher,theFirst Mountain Man, TheFamily Jensen, Luke Jensen,Bounty Hunter, Eagles,MacCallister(anEaglesspin-off), Sidewinders, TheBrothers O’Brien, Sixkiller,Blood Bond, The Last

Gunfighter, and the newseriesFlintlockandTheTrailWest. May 2013 saw thehardcover western ButchCassidy:TheLostYears.“The western,” Bill says,

“is one of the few true artforms that is one hundredpercentAmerican. I liken theWesternasAmerica’sversionof England’s Arthurianlegends, like the Knights ofthe Round Table, or RobinHood and his Merry Men.

Starting with the 1902publication of The Virginianby Owen Wister, andfollowed by the greats likeZane Grey, Max Brand,ErnestHaycox,andofcourseLouis L’Amour, the westernhas helped to shape thecultural landscape ofAmerica.“I’m no goggle-eyed

college academic, so whenmy fans ask me why thewestern is aspopularnowas

it was a century ago, I don’toffer a 200-page thesis.Instead, I canonlyoffer this:Thewesternishonest.Inthisgreat country, which issuffering under the yoke ofpolitical correctness, thewestern harks back to an erawhen justice was sure andswift. Steal a man’s horse,rustlehiscattle,robabank,astagecoach, or a train, youwere hunted down and fittedwithahangman’snoose.One

sizefitall.“Sure, we westerners are

prone to a littleembellishment andexaggeration and, I admit it,occasionally play a little fastand loosewith the facts.Butwe do so for a very goodreason—to enhance theenjoymentofreaders.“It was Owen Wister, in

The Virginian, who firstcoinedthephrase‘Whenyoucall me that, smile.’ Legend

has it that Wister actuallyheard thosewords spokenbya deputy sheriff in MedicineBow, Wyoming, whenanother poker player calledhimasonofabitch.“Diditreallyhappen,oris

it one of those myths thathave passed down from onegeneration to the next? Ihonestly don’t know. Butthere’s a line in one of myfavoritewesterns of all time,The Man Who Shot Liberty

Valance, where thenewspaper editor tells theyoung reporter, ‘When thetruth becomes legend, printthelegend.’“ThesearethewordsIlive

by.”

PINNACLEBOOKSarepublishedbyKensingtonPublishingCorp.119West40thStreetNewYork,NY10018Copyright©2015J.A.JohnstoneAllrightsreserved.Nopartofthisbookmaybereproducedinanyformorbyanymeanswithoutthepriorwritten

consentofthepublisher,exceptingbriefquotesusedinreviews.Totheextentthattheimageorimagesonthecoverofthisbookdepictapersonorpersons,suchpersonorpersonsaremerelymodels,andarenotintendedtoportrayanycharacterorcharactersfeaturedinthebook.

PUBLISHER’SNOTEFollowingthedeathofWilliamW.Johnstone,theJohnstonefamilyisworkingwithacarefullyselectedwritertoorganizeandcompleteMr.Johnstone’soutlinesandmanyunfinishedmanuscriptstocreateadditionalnovelsinallofhisserieslikeTheLastGunfighter,MountainMan,andEagles,amongothers.Thisnovelwasinspiredby

Mr.Johnstone’ssuperbstorytelling.Ifyoupurchasedthisbookwithoutacover,youshouldbeawarethatthisbookisstolenproperty.Itwasreportedas“unsoldanddestroyed”tothepublisher,andneithertheauthornorthepublisherhasreceivedanypaymentforthis“strippedbook.”

PINNACLEBOOKS,thePinnaclelogo,andtheWWJsteerheadlogo,areReg.U.S.Pat.&TMOff.ISBN:978-0-7860-3582-3Firstelectronicedition:August2015ISBN-13:978-0-7860-3582-3ISBN-10:0-7860-3582-X