Morgan's Land

Morgan's Land Tracy Dunham Hard Shell Word Factory

Morgan’s Land

Tracy Dunham

For Paula Gemmer, who still loves this story.

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Morgan’s Land

Tracy Dunham

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Copyright 2000, Tracy Dunham ISBN: 1-58200-558-3 Published August 2000 by Hard Shell Word Factory PO Box 161 Amherst Jct. WI 54407 [email protected] http://www.hardshell.com Cover art copyright 2000, Dirk A. Wolf All electronic rights reserved. All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatever to anyone bearing the same name or names. These characters are not even distantly inspired byany individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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Chapter 1 SHE SAT across from him in the train, knitting with quick, capable fingers. All the way from Kansas City, he’d been unable to stop staring at her. Whenever she’d suddenly level her jade green eyes at him, he’d start and jerk his gaze out the window, as thought the unsteady sway of the train had only accidentally thrown his look in her direction. Then, for a time, he would make himself stare instead at the bearded farmer across the aisle. But inevitably his eyes were drawn back to her. She had nodded politely when he’d asked permission to sit across from her. She hadn’t blushed, or lowered her eyelids demurely, or mutely ignored his male presence. It had been that steady, accepting look, straight into his own gray eyes, that had started his interest. She was a woman well out of girlhood, and not pretty—at least not in the way of females he had recently encountered. She wore an unflattering dark plaid traveling suit and had removed her hat, disdaining the need for the protection of its veil against the soot of the train’s engine. He’d seen the name embroidered on the band that lined it—“J. Morgan Wilson.” When he’d restlessly tried to stretch his cramped legs, she had moved her skirts to one side and smilingly nodded at his apology. He had been content, so far, to hope guiltily for another look into her frank and beautiful eyes, and to stare at her calm, even face.

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He found himself contrasting her with the women he had seen on his travels—the fashionably dressed mademoiselles strolling in the Louvre or posing in carriages that lined the Bois de Boulogne. Well, Paris and the rest of his travels were behind him now: he was going home. He’d always said that he wanted to see something of the world. The startling realization, a few months before, that he was tired after fourteen years of building a cattle empire, had set him off. He had had a profitable discussion with his stockbroker, packed his bags, and gone, in his staid stockman’s clothes, with his sun-scarred face and callused gun hand. And he’d found that society all over the world was as stifling and superficial as it was in Sacramento—and that he wanted none of it anywhere. The paintings of Venice, the sentimental sculpture of Rome, the crowded, twisting streets and omnipresent bustle of people in Europe’s cities had meant nothing to him. And as for the hopes that he had had for the trip—homes not even revealed to Virgil, his ranch foreman and best friend—they hadn’t panned out at all. He was sick of living alone with only men, year after year, all his conscious hours guided by the whims of a bunch of stupid cattle. He wanted a wife. And he’d looked for one, in the maroon velvet dining rooms of the best hotels, on the shuffleboard decks of the boat, in the drawing rooms of the best families. All he’d seen were porcelain girls with too tight stays, who would have disintegrated at the touch of the Montana sun or the stench of a cow. So he was going home, to the house he and Matthew and Virgil had built with their own hands, in their own sweat, out of their hopes of what the Circle M ranch would one day be. There was blood, too,

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in the deep, strong stone foundations—the blood of those who’d wanted to stop them. Time and again, men who called themselves “honest” had tried to shoot Virgil and him in the back as they laid the large boulders for the foundation. They couldn’t stand the sight of the three of them riding down from the Circle M into town like decent men, tipping their hats to the ladies, drinking quietly in the Pink Garter saloon. All those righteous men had worked their jealousy to a killing pitch because three gunfighters were buying up all the open land in the valley. Through it all, the three had kept calmly to themselves, going about their business, leaving their guns under the wagon seat, keeping closed mouths when a red-faced farmer muttered “blood money” in their ears while they stood at the counter in the general mercantile store. The names of John Marcus Macgruder and Virgil and Matthew Talbot still instilled fear, even though the Colts were in the wagon. Matthew had been only eighteen, he, John, twenty-one, and Virgil nineteen, all three of them headed for hell and perdition when they’d drifted onto the Kincaid spread near Sacramento to hide out from the law for a while. They had thought they’d be safe punching cows for a few weeks on a small, backwoods ranch. They were three kids hell bent for damnation and an early grave, three kids too fast with guns to lead normal lives. They’d all three run from the orphanage years before and spent all the lonely time up to then doing their devil best to die young and dirty. But David Kincaid had made men of them, and loved them, and driven the lawlessness from them.

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Matthew and Virgil had lit out on their own one time, running from Mr. Kincaid and his kindness. John Marcus had gone after them himself. And from then on, the three of them were Mr. Kincaid’s’s sons in everything but name. When Mr. Kincaid died, he’d left all his land and a few good horses to the three of them with John Marcus in legal control because he was over twenty-one. John Marcus had begged Virgil to quit acting as the Circle M’s foreman and join him in managing the empire of which, since Matthew’s death, he owned half. But Virgil had stubbornly refused, saying he was better in the saddle than behind the big oak desk. So Virgil, at thirty-five, was head of the drives and wranglings, wearing leather chaps and driving the hard trails, while he, John Marcus, acted the part of the big owner, driving the hard bargains with the stockmen in their St. Louis Stetsons and creased trousers. John knew that his appearance was formidable. The sun had creased his face, accenting his high cheekbones and the hollows beneath them. His mouth was straight and firm, some said too firm, and the wrinkles at the corners of his wide-set, shale gray eyes were not from laughter. Laughter had ceased abruptly when those “honest” sodmen lynched Matthew and left Virgil and Macgruder for dead, face down in the mortar of the house’s foundation. He had realized then that the names of Talbot and Macgruder would have to remain feared until they were in a position to wield money and men, rather than guns, for protection and profit. Since that moonless night when Matthew had swung from the old scrub oak tree by the corral, he’d had his Colt, with filed action, slung low within reach day and night: in the bath, in his bed roll, beside his dinner plate in boarding houses.

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Macgruder realized he was clenching his jaw at the memory and with great effort relaxed into an awkward smile. The woman, J. Morgan as he was already calling her in his mind, had stopped knitting and was staring unblinkingly into his eyes. He must have shown too much in his face, too much of the old hurt and resentment that had been veneered over with hard-won success. This time he really smiled at her, the deep, easy smile of a man who could grin winningly but seldom did. She ducked her head and pulled a skein of scarlet wool from the carpetbag on the seat beside her. “If you wouldn’t mind too much, would you hold my yarn for me while I rewind it? I’ve run out, and I can’t knit when it’s this way.” She had neat, even teeth and the sure voice of a woman who didn’t indulge in giggles or hysterics. This woman had the courage it took to speak to such a grim-faced, dour-looking stranger, he thought So he held out both hands, stiffly, to catch the looped ends of the yarn. “I’d be pleased, miss.” They were both silent as she efficiently wound the yarn into a neat, even ball. He noticed she wore no wedding ring. The train clacked across the now tame prairies and plains. Perhaps he’d see her again when it was over. Her ticket stub told him she was getting off west of Franciscan Wells, to the north of the Wilson spread, not too far from his own ranch. Macgruder wondered what she’d say if he told her his thoughts. Would she greet him as a neighbor, telling him there would always be a hot meal and a warm hearth at her place? Her place? Her father’s?

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Her husband-to-be’s? Somehow, the last didn’t fit—she was too free and independent looking. A school marm? No. Something about her said she was a California ranch woman, born and bred. He knew he would take as much of her company as she would give, and maybe, some day, search for more. Some day, when there was time again to wonder about a woman for the St. Louis four poster in the west bedroom at the Circle M homestead. He cleared his throat in an effort to open a conversation once more before she left the train. “That’s a mighty heavy sweater you’re making, miss. For your brother?” “No, it’s for me. Roundup is starting early this year, and I’m going to need all the warmth I can get on the trails this early out.” So, he hadn’t been so wrong after all. She was a ranch woman. The train eased into Franciscan Wells in the late afternoon as a pale receding sun began lazily to streak the horizon. He stood to reach for her banded boxes on the wire rack above the seat, while she pushed her knitting into the carpetbag. He felt a sad regret. Why, after all the useless months spent in aimless chatter with empty-headed girls, when he did see one whom he knew would fit into his life, could he do no more than sit there like a lizard on a log? He felt like an adolescent again. He helped her unload onto the dusty platform and looked around to see what menfolk had come to take care of her. She stood restlessly, beating at her dusty skirts with her gloved hands. “Morgan Wilson!” A grizzled cowpuncher snatched off his battered hat and jumped down from a

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yellow-wheeled buggy. “Sam.” She held both hands out to him in the manner of an old friend. John watched as Sam stood back for a moment, then awkwardly took both hands and kissed her on the cheek, in the rough manner of an older man to a young child. Then he remembered. Joseph Wilson. Always “Mr. Wilson” to men in the cattle business, owner of the biggest spread next to his and Virgil’s. They had seldom crossed paths and had never really had to compete as so many large cattle owners had done. His memory was of a vague, white-bearded man with a sure, quiet way, who had done much to straighten out the potentially crooked in the Cattleman’s Association. That was all he could remember, since he had never head of Mr. Wilson having any family. She turned to Macgruder with a sudden wide smile. “Sam,” she said to the cowpoke, “this gentleman has kept me company on that long train ride. And to Macgruder, “Samuel Rockbridge is my godfather and a very old friend.” He shook hands solemnly with the weathered old man. “John Marcus Macgruder,” he told them both. “And I’m sure I feel the fool, Miss Wilson. Out in this part of the country I should have realized that you belong to the Flying W Ranch.” He slowly lifted the boxes to Sam’s waiting arms and helped her into the buggy. It was moving too fast; he was feeling awkward again. “Miss Wilson, this had been a genuine pleasure, and I’m glad someone is here to take care of you.” She pulled a lap rug around her knees. “Mr. Macgruder, I assure you, I don’t need anyone to take

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care of me. I’m sure you’ll hear soon enough. I’m running the Flying W. My father has passed away. It’s my spread now.” He was taken aback, both by the challenge and the determination in her voice. A woman managing the Flying W? He smiled to himself. Sam was gathering up the reins of the matched bays. “Miss Morgan, we’re ready to go home.” John tipped his Stetson to her. “Well, good luck to you, Miss Wilson. Thank you for your company.” She pulled the rug tighter about her legs. “Certainly, Mr. Macgruder. The pleasure was mine.” He watched the white stockings of the horses fade into the dusk and reboarded the train only at the last pull of the whistle.

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Chapter 2 EVERY TIME John Marcus returned home, he was startled to find himself stepping down from the crowded train into the middle of nowhere. Blinking, he groped for a tip for the porter who helped him unload his luggage, then stood peering into the night, searching the darkness for the familiar figure he knew would be there. Virgil was waiting for him, just as he always was when John came home. Leg slack on the brake stick of the wagon, half asleep on the wooden seat, with a loosely rolled cigarette hanging from his lips, Virgil didn’t twitch when John tossed his trunk into the buckboard. The wheel creaked as John hauled himself onto the seat beside him and deftly plucked the cigarette from the other man’s lips, taking a long drag. Not moving a muscle, Virgil muttered, “You never smoked before you got all this stuff and nonsense about going to Europe.” John stuck the brown roll of paper back between Virgil’s lips. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed Virgil. “No, I guess I never did. But I had to think of something to do there to occupy my time.” Virgil came to life and gathered in the horses, turning them in the direction of the small way station a few miles down the road.

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“You could have written a few more letters if you had so much time,” he said. “Nothing to write. I should have come home sooner.” “Yeah, you should. We missed you.” At the way station, Raul, who’d been running the place for as long as they’d been coming home on the train, handed John the key to the small room they always used. It was off the street, on the east side, where the sun could wake them up. Later, Virgil’s spurs clanking on the wide-planked floor, they walked out to the front porch to sit and let dinner digest. John talked, telling his friend about what he had seen: the narrow, dirty streets; the museums crammed with relics of more generations than anyone could care about; the silky-haired girls who laced their corsets so tight that they fainted; the black-haired whores in Madrid who wore far less than corsets. Virgil laughed at the brothel stories, knowing full well that John was making up most of them, and waited for his friend to run out of talk. When he did, he hadn’t said one word about the Wilson woman on the train. Then it was time for business. Virgil told John about the pastures they’d used to shift stock, which hands had been shot in Saturday night gunfights, about re-roofing the half barn and the new colts expected in a month or two. “I suppose that’s all. Your horse sure has been missing you, so I put him out to fatten up. He’ll

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probably buck you off.” “He probably will. I rode one of those long-necked English type horses, with me on one of those linen napkin saddles, and I damn well hung on to the mane. Me!” Virgil hooted. “Wait until I spread that one around!” John waited for Virgil to stop laughing. “What’s happening with the Wilson spread?” Virgil looked closely at John. “Why the Wilson place? Did you hear already?” “Well, I heard on the train that he’d died. I was just wondering how it’ll affect our pastures near his land.” Virgil began to roll another poor cigarette. “That’s not all that’s going on up there. There are some pretty big rumbles about range trouble and hired pistoleros.” They looked at each other with sudden grave understanding. Range wars had already erupted in the Wyoming territory and to the north of California. Things like that spread like a grass fire once the guns started gathering. He and Matthew and Virgil had shot their way through a few minor wars themselves before Mr. Kincaid. What worried John more was the effect a range war could have on the Circle M. First thing tomorrow he’d have to take a look at the ranch fences—and check out the folks hanging around the area at the same time.

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THE SUN, gathering strength with the lengthening days, woke them. Before it rose over the edge of the telegraph office roof, they were in the wagon, heading home, with the loaded shotgun resting against Virgil’s knees. John knew that when the first fast gun showed up in the saloons, Virgil would pull his holster to the front so the Colt would be both visible and easier to pull quickly in a side-standing draw. John would take his own Colt from the desk drawer when he got home and make sure the holster was slick enough for the right pull at the right moment. Though he hadn’t told Virgil yet, he was planning to go along when they moved their winter herd down to collect the prime beeves for the drive to the railhead. The drive would take them past Franciscan Wells, close to the flying W.

BY HIMSELF, Virgil had handled the ranch as well as John had known he would. The big oak desk was cleared, the inkwell filled, and John’s leather chair pulled before the stone fireplace. The two men finished off a bottle of French champagne John had brought back and passed the rest of the case out to the bunkhouse. John sat back in the big chair, happy to be at home. Womanless though it was, the house was filled with the life of the ranch and his life, his and Virgil’s, from the cabinet of Winchesters, bright and oiled, to the long oak stairway leading to the large bedrooms they’d planned for their wives *

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JOHN SADDLED his Appaloosa with the next dawn, calling the horse in from the pasture with the special whistle he’d used since the gelding was a colt. He’d bought the deep-blue spotted Mancha from a Navajo trader, who had sworn that the animal’s stud had been the wind and his dam the Snake River. He threw on the silver-conched saddle, won in a Mexican mud town from another gunfighter when he was fifteen: Virgil had kept it cleaned and the silver shining. Mancha, old friend, you’ve had too much easy living, John thought as the gelding stuck out his gut when his master pulled in on the cinch. We both have, he added as he nudged the round, patched belly with his knee to make sure the horse breathed out. But his leather chaps still felt better than any English suit, and the heavy wool jacket was more comfortable than those damned silk evening shirts. Mancha pulled out at a slow trot as soon as John’s right foot hit the stirrup. The land he had missed so much, the pale saffron hills, patched with small clumps of slowly budding trees and the round cattle springs being cleared for roundup, looked like heaven to him. John pulled out the horse’s bit at noon to let him scrounge for new blades of grass. He hunched against the trunk of a cottonwood and slowly let the spring water from his canteen run over his hands to cleanse them of some of Mancha’s dirt. He chewed on a chunk of Mexican flat bread that the cook had put in his saddlebags that morning. Things had to get straight now, he thought to himself. The Indian blue color of the sky heralded warmer weather that was coming on quickly, and the sweet

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land that would feed the cattle was showing its promise of new life with its fresh green carpet. John wanted to mount up right then and there and ride out to find J. Morgan Wilson. Virgil could handle everything perfectly well without him—and the time wasted in Europe had proven that to Virgil himself. Now, holding the battered canteen that had been Mr. Kincaid’s, feeling the warmth from the damp growing earth in the noonday sun, John felt the first strong determination that had taken hold of him since something had driven him to leave the orphanage and make a decent life for himself. He realized that the stalemate had been broken. He mounted Mancha. It was time to let the knight play for the queen. He’d tell Virgil that night. But first he would check his fences and make sure his kingdom was safe. Virgil came riding through the gate just as John was rubbing Mancha down. His gun was pulled to the front of his flat stomach,, his sheeplined coat was open to the chill, and he held a long-barreled rifle in one hand, the reins loosely in the other. John automatically reached to check his .45. Without a word, Virgil pulled the saddle off his wet dun, and handed the reins to a gaping cowboy. John knew that Virgil would never give his horse to anyone else to clean unless there was bad trouble. The worst must have happened. Still silent, Virgil clumped up the steps of the porch, thrust open the door with his rifle butt, and headed for the sideboard in the dining room that held the crystal brandy decanter. “Pistoleros,” he said after the second gulp. “Three of them, El Paso types, and talking up range wars from the north to the south of the state.”

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John unclasped his holster and set it down on the gun rack by the door. “Who’s paying? The outfit that started the talk around last year?” “How the hell should I know?” Virgil threw off his coat, letting it land in a corner. “But they were flashing big silver dollars and lying about stolen pasture rights and barbed wire fences, and about how it was the duty of all real men to uphold what was right and just. The bastards!” John began to build a fire in the fireplace. “Does it have anything to do with the Wilson spread, and the fact there’s no man running the place now? It would be like those jackals to move in when they smell blood.” Virgil stopped his steady pacing and threw John an odd look. “Yeah, that’s my guess. Someone up there is getting greedy. That girl of his thinks she can handle the whole shootin’ match. I’d bet Diego Monloya and his wolves are waiting for the storm to start flying fast and furious, and then they’ll begin chewing on big hunks of Wilson land. No better time for Monloya to make a move than when they spread out to get their calves down for roundup. You know there’s no lawman around up there, or anywhere around here, for that fact, who can catch that one at his tricks. It’s never been a secret that he’s always felt the Wilson land was his by divine right. Why, he’s practically drooled over the place. Now it’s weak, and he figures the girl will be only too ready to run, and he’ll have his big chance.” John poked at the blaze with a twisted stick. In his mind, a picture arose—a woman who sat across from him, knitting calmly as the train lurched and swayed with the miles.

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“Do we have any herds up that direction?” “Yeah, a few, not enough for them to hunt down, not enough to hurt us bad, if we lost them. It’s the principle of it all. I’ll take some hands up there tomorrow morning and see what I can save.” “I’m going with you. But not tomorrow. Hold off a day or two, and let me get the Cattleman’s Association in on it. We’re going to have to be as legal as Monloya manages to make his dirty stuff look. We can’t just ride up there and shoot it out.” Virgil crouched next to him, staring hard into his eyes. “You’ve already thought this out. But there’s something else going on besides this plan with the Cattleman’s Association. What?” John picked up his gun and headed for the stairs. “I’ll tell you later. Good night, Virgil. It’s good to be home.”

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Chapter 3 I’VE BEEN doing one hell of a lot of traveling these days, John thought as he threw his bag in the back of the surrey the next morning. Virgil held the reins as he stepped up. A warm sun was quickly penetrating the immediate postdawn chill. “John, I’ll wait three days at the most. That’ll give you a day up, a day to do your fancy talking, and a day back. Then I ride. You know these things move like brush fires.” John took the long, soft buggy whip from its holder and pulled the little bay together with the leathers Virgil had placed in his hands. “Don’t do anything too fast, Virg. You know I’ll take care of it as quickly as I can. But in case I’m not going to be back by the third day, I’ll send you a wire and meet you at the Wells. Bring Mancha, with the remuda. We’re going to bring our herd in before any lead starts flying, if I can help it. Maybe just maybe, I can keep the guns out of it altogether. Just don’t be foolish. You and I, we know how these hired guns think. Monloya’s probably paying top dollar for every established rancher who’s ‘accidentally killed.’” Virgil gave the bay a slap on the flank, startling him. “All right, John. But a range war right now would ruin all of us in the valley.”

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“I know, Virgil, I know. I’ll send you a wire if anything happens.” The drive into the small town to catch the noon train calmed him. He could tell from the feel of the air and the soft shade of the robin’s egg blue in the sky that it would be hot sooner than usual this year. He left the surrey at the livery to be picked up later by a hand from the ranch. The ticket agent looked surprised to see him. “Leaving again so soon, Mr. Macgruder? I thought you’d kinda like to stay home a while for a change.” John paid for the ticket. “I would believe me, Ragan, I would. But there’s some urgent business the circle M need to get done at the Association, and Virgil says he’s tired of doing the talking and the writing part of the ranch. So I guess I haven’t got any choice when my foreman tells me to get back to work.” There was no sense in alarming all of the valley, he thought. The townspeople would catch on quickly enough when the droves of gunfighters on their way to the action started drifting in. They’d all ride in for one last, fast night of cards and liquor before the blood began to run. He remembered nights in one-street towns in Wyoming many years before. The train arrived a half hour late, as usual. A few passengers got off; when the last man stepped down, Macgruder threw his bag to the conductor. The last passenger looked familiar; John had seen those square-set shoulders and feline eyes somewhere before. The man nodded impersonally to John, and picking up his saddlebags, shouldered them as he strode down the platform. He wore his gun slung low

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and loose. Macgruder boarded the train and undid the safety on his .45 as it lurched out of the station. Once in the lobby of the Cattleman’s Hotel, he handed his bag to the porter and went straight to the bar. The crimson oriental carpet stopped at the doorway, which was hung with strings of painted wooden beads. The satin-clad, henna-haired women wouldn’t be coming downstairs until later. The Association members would have gotten his telegrams by now and would be gathering in the boardroom by nine that evening. He’d told Virgil it would take him three days because he wanted to get to Franciscan Wells a day before Virgil came with the roundup crew. Once he’d advised the board of the situation, he’d leave. He hadn’t told Virgil that instead of a starched, clean shirt for the committee and lawyer meetings, his riding chaps and spurs were in the carpet bag. He ate a steak, potatoes, and two pieces of cherry pie at a linen-covered table set in a corner of the dining room. Scattered about the floor in damask chairs were several single men, dressed, like himself, in the gabardine cloth of wealthy stockmen. There was one family with a brood of quiet children, and a few women of unusual French elegance, wearing ostentatious beaded hoods and feathered bonnets and obviously bored with both their surroundings and the portly men they were with. He shook his head over the women, no longer young, but trying to act it, overeager to latch onto the first wealthy admirer who’d have them. They were the ones who had been shut out of the parlors in the East, then Kansas City, then St. Louis. Now they were out for their last chance in San Francisco. He’d rather have the honesty of a

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saloon girl any day of the week. The sight of honest-to-goodness rouge and long, dyed nails would strike him better than this. With that thought, he pushed back the captain’s chair, and headed for the saloon. He had to be able to think clearly, at least for a few minutes, on the plan of attack to be taken with the stockmen. He sat down facing the swinging bead doorway and waited for the madam in green silk to bring his liquor.

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Chapter 4 MORGAN WILSON held the folded rug from the buggy over her arm like a shield and pushed open the large oak double door. She was home—husbandless, fatherless, and too well educated for her own good. Now she had to prove she was truly her father’s daughter and keep his empire together. Instead of meekly serving tea in Adam-style parlors in Philadelphia, she was still J. Morgan Wilson, strong-willed and pig-headed as ever, determined to run a working ranch. She left her hat and jacket on the hall table where her father had once laid his holster and vest. It had been too long since she’d been in this house. She moved toward the back, toward the notched log kitchen that had been the first house her father had built. When her mama had been a bride, the second addition went up, with finely chinked logs, and the best plaster, and a red tile roof. Then came Morgan herself, and the huge front section of the house with a foundation of South Carolina bricks and a veranda of northern California redwood, painted a bright white. She touched the blue brocade settee she’d sent from New York City and was surprised to find she didn’t really like it with the heavy ranch-made pieces of oak and leather. She had felt that she’d become an Easterner in spirit, as well as fashion. But touching the handcarved chairs, she knew that it had all been a hoax. She had fooled herself, her father, and James

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Paul Kingston. And then she had come to her senses, dropped a Dresden teapot on a family heirloom rug, and with it all the pretenses. She was free of the facade of Philadelphia and of James and his family, for all time. She had come home to a hard challenge—to face a heritage that had been withheld from her until she found a husband of whom her father would approve. “Senorita.” A pretty girl gently tugged at the lap robe in her arms. She made a conscious effort to release the robe clutched in her arms like a shield against a foe. “You’re Sam’s Maria! But you’re a young woman now! I’m pleased you’re here, Maria.” “I’m happy to be here too, Miss Morgan. Come with me, please. I have a hot tub ready in your room, and a fire. It is still so chill at night.” “Thank you. I feel like all the dirt and dust of the entire U.S. of A. is ingrained in my skin. I must look a solid layer of gray.” She followed Maria up the stairs to the room of her childhood. Suddenly she felt overwhelmed with memories of James, Roth Jason, and her father. Although her father had approved of and given his blessing to James, it had been Roth Jason, the gunfighter, whom she had loved with a passion whose memory still cut too close to the bone. Holding a small, gray-flecked looking glass before her, she began pulling out hairpins with her free hand. Oh, you idiot, she murmured, looking at her sleepy, dirty face. You never really understood what your father wanted from you, just as much as he never knew what you wanted. Poor Father. You gave me

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all the education, all the right social contacts that had made my mother into the person you fell in love with. But I loved you as a totally different person. I belonged with you here, in the middle of the herds, and not in female seminaries and with distant relatives who were supposed to make me into a lady. Even that night I saddled my horse to run off with my gunfighter, it was just to make you notice me. But it made you put me on the train back to Philadelphia the next morning. If only I’d understood sooner that you hated having me away, that it was the only thing you knew to do. Then her thoughts turned back to Jason. Lord, she thought to herself, I was so young and naive in those days. It had been his air of being different from the rest, apart, that had attracted her at first, and then his quick, piercing mind had been a match for hers in a way she’d never experienced before. He always thought before he acted, she remembered. Except the one time he’d been impetuous—when he’d struck her father. She had loved Roth Jason, in the way a desperately unhappy girl loves the first man who sees her as a woman in her own right. She’d been content to be with him for hours, while he honed his skills, his ability to rope a cow and brand it in a matter of seconds, to get his work done while everyone else was just starting the job. But her father had seen only the quick hand on the gun, and the hungry eyes, and something very different in him than what she had found. She knew, as her father refused to know, that the hunger was for her. The room she was in now had held her great-grandmother’s bed, her mother’s bed, and now hers. Her grandmother had known her husband for the first time in that bed; and she had

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sent it to California in the hold of a clipper ship when the only daughter of six children born in that bed had married Joseph Wilson. The cherry fourposter had held Morgan’s mother in love, and birth, and death. Morgan touched the strong lines of the Virginia cherry frame, hoping to gain some small amount of strength and love from its gentle Queen Anne lines. For the first time since leaving her life in Philadelphia, she cried. She knew she should have cried much sooner.

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Chapter 5 THE MEN had all smoked and drunk too much by the time they finally gathered at the round table in the private poker room. It annoyed John slightly, but he knew they’d sober up as soon as they realized the situation. “Gentlemen, I call this meeting to order.” He rammed his fist against the pasteboard wall. There was partial silence. “Gentlemen, we are facing a first-class range war. And if we don’t get our defenses up now, we’ll none of us be in business next year. The situation, simply put, is this. The new cattlemen in the upper north central region are watching their herds grow bigger and better every day. And they figure that if we go into a different line of business, their prices will be all the better this roundup, and a couple hundred per cent better in the next few years. So they’re going to start trouble the easy way. This part of California, and every rail center in every state around us, is filling up with hired guns. They’ll start trouble, and then just drop out in the middle of it and let us carry on with the shooting.” The liquor smiles were gone from their faces and some of the men toyed worriedly with their halffull glasses of rye. He knew that he had all their attention now. “They’ll manage to make it seem that one of Steve Wade’s men killed one of mine, for instance, and

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before we know it, we’ll all be aiming at each other. One of the gunfighters hanging around will put the match to the fuse, throw it, and run back to Wyoming or Texas. I know how these men work. It’s their first try in this part of California, and they’ll make a good show of it, at the very least.” He had known they’d listen to him. They knew he’d worked both sides of the law and trusted his wealth and power enough to know he wasn’t leading them down a blind trail. His spread was the biggest ranch around, and he would be likely to lose the most if there was any gun trouble. Macgruder paused a second. “This is my plan. So far we’ve each handled our own herds and been getting to the railheads separately. As of now, those days are over. We’re going to have to muster our forces. Each ranch will tally its own herd, and move it in with those of the other ranches at roundup. Then we all go as one herd for the rails. With our combined manpower and gun power, we’re a stronger group than those gunslingers have bargained for, I hope. This means also that we can keep our eyes on each other, so that no rumors get spread around. “I also suggest that we move as quickly as possible, earlier than our usual late March schedules. If we wait too much longer, California’s going to hold every gunman in the Union. And there’s bound to be an incident that will catch us off guard and not united. Unity, gentlemen, this is our objective. Remember, these pistoleros are basically loners, each man for himself and his own profit. When we stand up together, our rifles drawn, they just may get cowed. After all, shooting at a man who’s facing you and firing back is a lot different than backshooting a nightrider or an owner alone in his tack house. Any

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discussion?” Every eye in the room was on him. They were all stone, cold sober, he was pleased to note. It was probably the most talking he’d ever done at the Cattleman’s Association, and he hadn’t been sure until that very moment that all of them would listen to him. Paul Varner spoke first. “I can have my herd together in two weeks. Where do we all meet?” John thought quickly of the winter pastures. “South of Franciscan Wells. We can move the herd down the river and take almost a direct path across the ranges to the railhead. But that also means covering some rough territory and staying off our established trails.” Jan Vanderhorst was a practical Dutchman with good business sense and complete contempt for violence. “I will do this for the simple reason that it will save us time and money and effort. This will also be the most direct trail. But, as John says today, no one has tried to cross these ranges before with so many herds. We may lose more cows than we expect. But by making the new trail now, we may find it to be to our advantage next year. It is time we tried this.” John let them talk on. He knew what the outcome would be. They were all sound businessmen at heart, out to protect their enterprises. Being logical men, they knew his solution was the only way that they could survive a range war. Alone, they’d all be destroyed. The stories from the Texas Panhandle about earlier range wars had been very ugly, and they all knew they were true. They wanted no fatal mistake as far as their herds were concerned.

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John’s thoughts wandered to the colored glass beads hanging in the doorway. The red ones glinted in the lamplight—they made him think of the red lights in her hair as she sat by the train window in the afternoon sun. Once again, a schoolboy ache gripped his chest. No time for such stuff and nonsense. John Marcus Macgruder, he reminded himself sternly, you’re an almost middle-aged ex-gunman. I’ll go up to Clara’s room tonight, he thought suddenly. She always has clean sheets. And brown hair with a glint of sunlight red in it.

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Chapter 6 MORGAN awoke before the sun was up. Silver mist surrounded the bunkhouse and the horses. She realized, with her artist’s inner eye, that the quality of light was much sharper than in Philadelphia. It was as though each dot of moisture had been painted on the scene before her with a single-fibered brush. She found her clothes hanging neatly in the wardrobe. She had many things to do, and the first would be to get rid of her delicate, overruffled parlor gowns. She would give them to the Jesuits for their charities. She needed solid linen work skirts, a pair of chaps to ride in, and a broad-brimmed hat that would take the brunt of the wind, rain, and sun. With a feeling of great satisfaction, she found a pair of embroidery scissors in her dresser, and began to snip moire’ ribbons and French silk roses from what was otherwise a good sunhat of tightly woven straw. She was startled by Sam’s daughter, standing silently in the doorway to her bedroom. She could tell by her expression that Maria thought that the señorita had lost her mind. “Maria, I’m so glad you’re up early too. I’ll need a pair of riding chaps today. Can you find a pair of my father’s, and get someone to cut them down for me?” Maria looked at the pink silk petals on the floor. “Are you sure this is what you want? What about your breakfast?”

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“You’re absolutely right. If I’m to start running a ranch, I’d better learn to like breakfast again. I’ll be down to the kitchen in a minute.” “I will bring it,” Maria said. Strange, Morgan thought as she quickly pulled on her chemise and a pair of knickers. This is the first morning in a long, long time that I’ve gotten up with an appetite, and a deep-down drive to get going. It’s about time, too. From an iron-bound trunk she pulled a pair of riding boots and her riding skirt. Feeling slightly vengeful, she took a piece of blue chalk from her sketch kit and drew a triangle down the center of the skirt. Quickly threading a needle, she began sewing with quick, tight stitches along the lines. Maria stood in the doorway, holding a silver tray with coffee and food. “Senorita, what are you doing now?” “This will have to do for a pair of britches until I can get some real ones. Please, Maria, don’t look so disapproving. If I’m to get this ranch running again, I’ve got to get to work. And there is simply no way I can sit properly on a horse in any of the silly clothes I brought home with me. Matter of fact, I can’t imagine any of my father’s horses standing still long enough to let me mount if I were wearing anything so ridiculous as this riding habit.” Maria set the tray on the night table. “This is good. Now I understand. My father said the East hadn’t changed you, that you would do what was right. I’ll go find one of your father’s wool shirts. It

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will be warmer, and you won’t need to ruin any more of your pretty things.” Morgan began dressing, lacing the many eyelets of the boots. She grabbed a few hairpins and jabbed them in her heavy, auburn hair. It was a sin she would never have committed in Philadelphia. She didn’t think James had ever seen her with so much as a fallen spit curl. Not that he had ever unpinned one for himself either. She made a concentrated effort to see herself objectively in the mirror. I suppose I look a lot like him, she thought, comparing her features to those in the tiny daguerreotype of her father that she carried in her travel case. Stubborn, yes. We were both as stubborn as Kentucky mules, as stubborn as any two Wilsons have ever been. I guess he just naturally assumed that since I was his child, I’d do anything he wanted of me. Any boy could have handled that in the natural course of events. But I had to handle the fact I was a woman, too. Maria returned, proudly bearing the newly altered chaps. “Miss Morgan, they will fit me, so I think they will fit you too. My father is saddling Ariel for you.” Ariel! She felt the pit of her stomach turn to ice. It was like facing a man’s dog after the man had died and expecting the same adoration and devotion. She knew Ariel would tolerate her presence on his back, because her father had taught him to mind his manners. That was all the big gelding would respond to. Not to her scent, her affection, the familiar pressure of knees in the saddle. And suddenly for the first time since the funeral, she felt an acute loss. She wished desperately for the brash confidence she had had

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when she was sixteen and knew the world was hers to conquer. Standing, she quickly buckled on the leather protectors. She felt very small and humble. At least she knew what she was up against, which included the disapproval of every ranch hand on the Flying W and practically every cattleman in the whole damn state. She gave a final tug on the pigskin gloves. Even if she and Sam and Maria had to punch those cows all alone, she wasn’t about to sell her ranch. The sun was hardening into an early spring day. It was time to mount up and ride over her lands. She and Ariel were going to become partners today and feel the beginning of the new spring together.

SHE HAD forgotten how beautiful it was. The slight tinges of pale purple on the rolling hills made her wish she had the time to bring out her sketch box and set up an easel for the rest of the day. She and Ariel moved at a slow canter over her lands, and she began to feel even smaller and more inconsequential as she realized how much she was going to have to learn, all the things her father had never taught her but which would have been hers by birthright if she’d been a boy. There was a certain cast to the sky that made her think of the skies she had watched from the train as she rode back from Philadelphia, finally on her way home. The man who had watcher her like a dark hawk from a cold northern sky had nonplussed her at first. She hadn’t been stared at in Philadelphia where there were legions of girls much prettier than she, all doing their best to attract the stares of men.

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Although her traveling companion had been dressed like all the prosperous ranchers who were her father’s friends, there was something that set him apart from the rest. So she had bent to her knitting and tried not to stare in return, although she had been dying to ask him why he found her so fascinating. She’d been aware of every move of his body and the restlessness that kept him shifting in his seat and stroking the brim of his hat with two long fingers. But, like any well-bred young lady of society, she’d pretended not to notice and had not started any untoward conversation with him. Then she realized, only after he’d spoken a few words of apology to her for disturbing her with his outstretched legs, that she knew what that different look he had was. It was the thing that set gunfighters apart from other men. So she had asked him if he’d hold her yarn while she wound a new skein into a ball for her knitting. He’d willingly extended his hands to hold the red loops of wool and then she was certain. Her instincts hadn’t been wrong—the callus on the left hand was there. He knew how to draw quickly and fire fast, and the callus told the whole story. And although it had been long ago, she had recognized immediately the sharpened sense she felt that day on the train—the same heightened feeling Roth Jason had aroused in Morgan when she was a girl of sixteen. It had startled her—and frightened her a little, too. She had tried to bridge her discomfort with calm conversation, but she still found herself wanting to know more about the man.

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She’d known one gunfighter well enough. And loved him, and would have run off with Roth Jason if her father hadn’t stopped her, sending her East and never letting her come home again. She had known even then that her father was right to send her away, but still she couldn’t forgive herself entirely for not fighting him all the way. If she had fought and won the battle over her gunfighter, she wondered now, would she be coming back from exile in Philadelphia an old maid, not a pretty woman of twenty-nine years with a wardrobe of silly clothes and useless talent with paint and brushes. Or would he have accepted her as his heir apparent in a world where only men were allowed to reign? Would she have been able to spend the past all-important years at her father’s side, riding the ranges and driving in the cows and running a branding iron when the need arose? Ariel took a playful sideways hop, and her thoughts returned to the land. She stroked his gray and black flecked mane, and spoke aloud to him. “Ariel, it doesn’t matter now. Because I’m here to stay this time. No one will get rid of me, no matter what.” She thought he shook his gentle gray muzzle in approval.

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Chapter 7 THE BORROWED horse kicked up his heels in the morning like a colt. Macgruder felt the same way. You old rascal, he thought to himself, after a few weeks of roundup and being on the trail with those dumb cows, you won’t be feeling so wild. It took only a few miles of steady riding to acknowledge that he really had been out of the saddle for too long. He stood painfully in his stirrups to ease the ache in his backside. Still, he felt more at home that morning than he had in ages. After the calm, moist greenness of England, and the heavy gold and red dusts of Italy, he was aware of how much he’d missed in the sense of space and grandeur that had marked his land in his own mind. The hand of man had come more recently, and he instinctively felt the air was cleaner, the dirt purer, and the sun a little closer to the fields than to the cobbled streets of Europe. You old fool, he muttered again to himself. It took you a pretty penny and plenty of precious time to find out what you’ve really known all your life. He could tell he was nearing Franciscan Wells by the distant, reverberating echo of the mission bells. Then he heard another, closer sound. Pulling in the reluctant horse to a stop, he listened intently. Then he recognized it; it was a female voice uncertainly singing, a bit flat, but gaily going over every stanza of “Barbra Allen.” He hadn’t seen a ranch house for miles, no dust from wagon tracks, nor any Mexican

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homesteads. Dismounting, he ran his hand over the shank of the horse’s bit to stop the clanking of the metal in the horse’s impatient mouth. Listening intently, he placed the song as coming from beyond the dust of a small hill, where he could see a stand of poplars. Taking the reins in his hands, he began walking in that direction, curious to see the woman who was serenading a stand of trees in the middle of nowhere. First he saw the rump of the big gray, swishing his tail back and forth as he grazed bridle-free. Then he saw the clothes piled in a heap in a dusty clearing by a small pond. Next a glistening head ducked beneath the surface of the water as he watched. When she next appeared, picking up the thread of the interrupted song, he recognized her. J. Morgan Wilson, she of the knitting needles, the woman he’d come to find, ostensibly to warn about the range war, was frolicking in a pond. Suddenly it was all too ridiculous. Here he was, riding away from his own herd in the midst of a crisis to see a woman he’d only muttered pleasantries to on a dirty train. Now, in the middle of the biggest problem to hit the valley since he and Virgil had buried Matthew, he had come to find this strangely haunting woman thirty miles from nowhere he knew, skinnydipping in a pond like an overheated cowboy. He took off his hat and puritanically turned to look at her grazing horse. “Lady,” he called out loudly, “what the hell are you doing in the middle of nowhere, buck-naked in a pond?”

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The song stopped. “I am NOT buck-naked, and this is my pond, and I’ll swim in it any damn time I please. And I’ve done it before, thank you.” Her voice was icier than the stone floor of the meat house on a winter morning. “Well, ma’am, seeing as I’ve ridden two hard days to talk business with you, it seems to me that the least you can do is to get out of that pond before someone less understanding than me comes riding along and takes a fancy to your horse.” “I doubt his interest would be in my horse, Mr. Macgruder. I should have recognized your voice, although you weren’t exactly a nonstop talker on that train. If you’ll kindly keep your back turned, I just might decide to get out of this cow pond, as you’ve named my favorite lake.” He could hardly keep from grinning at his horse, who was chewing his bit in complete apathy. You could say one thing for the girl, she sure wasn’t the type to scare easily, or back down any. “Yes ma’am, I’ll just wait for you over the rise.” He wondered if she had on any knickers. John Marcus Macgruder, you just keep on walking over that hill and keep those eyes of yours smack dab on that cottonwood right in front of you, he told himself sternly. She twisted some pond water out of her hair. Morgan Wilson, you idiot, you knew this was a dumb thing to do, she told herself. She stood on a stone, trying to keep her feet clean, and dripped as she straightened her makeshift pants and righted her father’s wool shirt. A slight breeze, plus the chill it brought, made her sneeze.

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“Miss Wilson, will you please put on those clothes before you catch your death of cold?” She furiously began to button the shirt at the reminder of his presence. “Mr. Macgruder, may I be so bold as to inquire what you are doing on my ranch? I must confess that after parting company at the train depot, I thought our paths would seldom, if ever, cross in the future. And now I find you hauling me out of a pond like I was twelve years old and playing hookey from school.” “Miss Wilson, are you dressed yet? I feel right foolish standing here talking to my horse. All I need now is for one of your rancheros to come trotting by and shoot me for being an old looney.” She buckled the last leather strap of the chaps over her damp linen pants. “Ariel, take the bit,” she commanded the gelding, who was solidly refusing to relinquish his mouthful of grass. “I am decently attired, Mr. Macgruder, I assure you.” She managed to tighten the horse’s girth. Then, untying the saddlebag on her right side, she made sure the Colt was still there. He turned as he heard her horse trotting up the hill toward him. He suddenly didn’t feel quite as tongue-tied as he had on the train. The same calm, businesslike expression was on her face, but now he knew she wasn’t quite as proper as he’d imagined. He almost wished he’d sneaked a look at her getting out of the water. “I can guess what you’re thinking,” she said. “That’s a perfectly silly smile to see on the face of a mature man.” She let herself grin at his sudden look of concern. “I can assure you, I was properly attired

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in my unmentionables during my little foray into the watery depths. You can see more of me in an evening gown.” He enjoyed the teasing in her voice. “Well, that’s a sight I’d like to see,” he said, teasing her in return. He could have sworn she was blushing. “In all seriousness, ma’am, I’ve ridden over from an emergency session of the Cattleman’s Association. There’s trouble coming like the plague over Egypt, and as our herds are the biggest around these parts, I was thinking that I should ride over and explain the situation and our proposed solution, and see if you’d like to go along with the rest of us in the Association.” “First of all, Mr. Macgruder, I wish you’d stop calling me ma’am. Secondly, if it’s business, then I suggest we start riding for the house, and you can explain it to me on the way. You will be staying the night as my guest, won’t you?” With that, she pushed her strange straw hat more tightly on her head and reined Ariel about. He gave his gelding a touch of Spanish spur, and the two horses moved out in rhythm together. By the time they reached the ranch house, he had outlined the situation to her, and he could look around him. He had never seen the Wilson spread before. The low, white-washed, red-tiled ranch house was surrounded by a wide, wooden veranda that gave it a Spanish feeling. The surrounding buildings, the bunkhouse, stable, smithy shed, and outhouses were all the same sparkling white. Neat, even fencing held the remuda and surrounded the house.

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He sensed her pride in the neatness of the spread. He knew then why she had returned to her father’s ranch after his death, determined to run it herself. Like Virgil and himself, she loved the land. He knew how easily you could come to think of it almost as a person, with familiar shadows, sounds, and smells. The color of a Joshua tree at dusk, the sweep of summer grass in a west wind, the patterns of life that changed with the slant of the rays of the sun and the days of the years were as important to her as they were to him. That he was sure of. He slowly became aware that she was speaking to him. “You will, of course, stay here tonight. I suggest we discuss the entire matter in more detail after dinner. Right now I have to talk over the situation with my foreman as you have explained it to me. I’m sure you’ll understand and forgive me for leaving you alone.” They had dismounted at the gate to the corral. She easily unsaddled the big gray, leaving the saddle on the railing and slinging the bridle over her shoulder. Still rubbing the wet from behind the horse’s ears, she swung open the gate to let the animal enter. “I think your horse will be fine in here with Ariel. He’s rather arrogant and won’t pay any attention to him. They’ll be rubbed down after they’ve had a good roll in the dirt.” “You know that horse well. Have you had him long?” He fell in step beside her as they walked toward the house. “Ariel isn’t mine—he belongs to no one. At best, he came close to being owned by my father,

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although Ariel really more or less owned Papa. Ariel is the supreme gentleman. He tolerates my presence because I am my father’s daughter, and it’s his duty to take good care of me.” She smiled, a quick grin that he instantly liked. “Ariel from The Tempest, right?” She looked slightly surprised. “A rancher who reads Shakespeare, Mr. Macgruder? Somehow, I find that to be incongruous.” “It seemed your father read Shakespeare, Miss Wilson. I don’t do too much reading, but I saw the play in England.” “England, Mr. Macgruder? You must tell me all about it when we have time for more pleasant discussions. But it was actually my mother who named Ariel, in absentia. She always said that if she couldn’t be herself, she’d have been Ariel. I think Ariel’s independence and high-class manners reminded Papa of her. Papa and Ariel had a perfect gentleman’s agreement.” She rubbed her boots on the scraper at the base of the steps up to the veranda. “How I do run on, goodness gracious. We’ve talked more in the past half-hour than we did all the way from Kansas City on the train.” He held the front door open as she entered the calm coolness of the house. “Yes ma’am, I suppose we have.” She led the way in silence to the front parlor.

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Chapter 8 MORGAN pulled off the half-damp pants and hurriedly laced up a dress over a dry camisole. She had decided—she was never going to wear a corset or stays again. She called for Maria to bring a hot tub to Macgruder’s room. Unable to suppress the imp in her, she penned a quick note to accompany the hot water. “Thought you might like a bath. Mine was certainly more fun.” Morgan Wilson, you nitwit, you’re acting like a schoolgirl, she thought as she folded the note between a clean towel and handed it to Maria. She was sure Macgruder had been telling the truth about the impending range war. Even though the man had been a gunfighter once, her father had never had anything to say against the way Macgruder had run his ranch. She hurried down the hall to the front veranda. “Sam, Sam,” she called as she heard the foreman’s boots in the office beside the house. He appeared quickly, a pen stuck behind one ear. “What is it, Miss Morgan? Dios mio, you sound as if the grazing pastures are on fire.” “Worse than that , Sam. Let’s go in your office, though. I don’t want word of this spreading until we can figure out what to do about it.”

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She sat in the worn captain’s chair that she’d seen her father in many times before. Now was the moment when she had to take his place, completely. She began to tell Sam the situation as Macgruder had described it to her. She finished hurriedly, aware that Maria would have dinner waiting, and she had told Macgruder she would discuss the Flying W’s involvement then. She realized she was tapping her fingertips together just as her father had done in moments of extreme concentration. “Well, that’s about it. Macgruder will be meeting his men at Franciscan Wells tomorrow or the next day. Now, do we do anything, or just wait it out? She hadn’t realized that Sam had become so much older during her years away. He toyed with the ledger on his cramped, cluttered desk, and she saw how tired his face had become. “Miss Morgan, you know what that man used to be?” “Of course, but he certainly hasn’t done anything like that, that I know of, since he settled down and built that ranch up from the very dirt. At least, I thought that’s the way it was with him, and the two men who came here with him, before I went away. Have you heard differently?” “No, he’s just always kept to his own business, as far as I’ve heard. It just seems strange, him riding here straight from a meeting with all the other ranchers. Why weren’t we called for, along with the others? And why is he meeting his men at Franciscan Wells? Why not up at his grazing pastures? You said you sat with the man for a long while on the train. Did he talk with you much? I don’t know, but

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there’s something I just plain don’t understand going on here.” “Well, he knew that I’d just gotten home, and I’m sure the word had already spread that I wouldn’t be selling out. The hands talk around town. My guess is that he thought he’d give me some time to talk with you and get a feel for the ranch again. He’s probably meeting the other ranchers at the Wells because it’s an equal drive for most of them. They can all start moving out their herds at the same time, as he said, so no one is left out, unprotected.” Sam rubbed at his ragged mustache, then pulled the pen out from behind his ear. “I will certainly be happy when you take over all this and I can get out there in the saddle, where I belong.” He waved his hand toward the small-paned window of the office. “I understand cattle. But I don’t understand men like Macgruder. I have a feeling that he’s here for another reason. I don’t want you to think I’m just getting old, Miss Morgan, but it has to do with you. You must remember that to these pistoleros you’re like a sitting target, a bottle perched on a limb of a small water oak, easily shattered in one shot from the hip. I worry about protecting you.” Barely resisting the urge to hug him, she rose to her feet. “Okay. I’ll tell him we’re in anyway. We’ve nothing to lose and our herd has to be moved soon. If something isn’t right, if the others don’t stay with him, we can pull out too. But for now, I don’t see how we can go wrong by joining every other big rancher in this end of the state. If there’s going to be trouble, we’ll all be in it together. And if the trouble is going to be the sort Macgruder says it is, there’ll be no way we can stay out of it. Sooner or

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later, some gunhawk will come riding down our ranges with the wrong bullet in his Colt. I can take care of myself with Macgruder, but I’m not so sure about the gunhawks.” Sam put his hand on her shoulders with the same awkwardness her father had shown when it came to expressing affection physically. “Miss Morgan, you were always so much like him, and just as bullheaded. His mistake was that he always stood alone. Don’t you make that mistake.” “Oh Sam, I have you.” She raised her hand to touch his face. Not since that night when she was sixteen and Sam had come out to the barn to find her father still reeling from Roth Jason’s blow, had she seen her father’s lifelong friend so worried.

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Chapter 9 THE GUNFIGHTER pushed his arms into the sleeves of the canvas duster and immediately jerked the tail of the coat behind him as he squatted before the fire. With one hand he reached for the blackened coffee pot, with the other he checked his holster, making sure it was clear of the cloth. Roth Jason hated the half-shadows and colors of twilight. They cut his vision and weakened his defenses. Once it was total darkness, he was more sure of himself. He had made his night vision into one of his main weapons in the long hours of darkness when he’d practiced shooting at targets on the Wilson ranch. He held the tin cup in his hands and let the warmth of the coffee work its way into his gun-callused palms. Morgan would sneak him hot, steamy jars of coffee late at night while he repeated his pattern of turn, crouch, and draw. He remembered with clarity the details of their few months together. He had been working on the ranch, punching cows by day, practicing, practicing, sharpening his draw by the light of a small lantern and a target of tin cans at night. She had come home from back East for the summer, and the most he had seen of her was as she galloped over the ranch at a breakneck speed on her mare. Sometimes he had pulled to a stop and just watched her racing over the hills, expecting at any moment to see the girl and horse tumble. That was when he figured out that something bothered the girl, that she wasn’t happy.

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Then one night, as he lined up his cans behind the smoke shed, he heard a faint rustle that shouldn’t have been there. He had whirled, gun drawn, ready for the intruder. Morgan had emerged from the shadows at the edge of the shed, her eyes dark in the pale glow of his lantern. In his memory, she hadn’t seemed a girl, but fully grown and ready for womanhood. “I’m Morgan,” had been her first words to him. To this day he could describe her blue skirt and the red scarf knotted at her neck, and how the veins stood out at her temples where she had pulled her hair straight back to tie it out of her face. She had watched him practice that night, promising not to tell anyone his secret. During the day they had ridden out together over the ranch, doing his chores. She helped him pull the wire taut while he nailed up new stretches, held the hot branding iron ready when he tied down a calf, and by night yes, by night, met him under the stars while he practiced his fast draw and his aim. He had told her then that he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life getting fifteen dollars a month and feed from men like her father. And she had told him how she hated Philadelphia and the school her father made her attend, and how all she wanted was to spend the rest of her life taking care of the land and the herds—and him. He had always been a loner, never friendly and joking with the other cowhands. They went to town on Saturday nights without him. But once he’d found Morgan, he had never felt lonely again. He looked for her to come riding over the next crest of the hill every day that summer, wearing her blue skirt, and

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she had. And by night, he’d held his lantern high by her hair, to see the red that glinted in it as she shook her head and laughed at him for pulling her toward him for a kiss before she could say a word of greeting. Those had been the fastest months of his life, and he could remember in vivid detail every single moment he was with her. Then her father had forbidden her to see him again, and had ordered him off the ranch. A common gunfighter, he’d called Jason, with Morgan standing to one side, her hands clenched into tight fists and tears in her eyes. How long, her father had demanded, would she be able to stand life with a man who made a living with a gun? He hadn’t been able to hear Morgan screaming at her father because of his own blind rage. He wasn’t a gunfighter, he’d shouted at Mr. Wilson. But the old man had simply pulled Morgan out through the barn door, while Morgan sobbed and struggled to run back to him. It was then that he’d hit Wilson, and the old man had staggered against the rough wood siding, blood pouring from his nose. Morgan had run to Jason, clutching him with arms that were as strong as any man’s. Then her father had moaned, and she had let go of Jason to go to him. He had never been able to forget the bewilderment and hurt in her eyes as she crouched by the old man, looking up at him from the straw-covered floor of the barn. Her father stumbled to his feet, turned, and began to walk unsteadily toward the ranch house. Morgan had given Jason one last, lost look, and said the final words he was to hear form her. “The shed, tonight, at midnight. Meet me there, with my horse.” Then she had hurried after her father and half carried him away from the barn.

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Jason had never thought too much about why he had hit the old man. He had just known that he couldn’t let anyone take something away from him that he wanted as much as he wanted Morgan. The sharp pain of that all-night wait, when she didn’t come to meet him, was something he put down each time the memory of it threatened to arise. He knew that he could never again be hurt by the boy of nineteen, and she couldn’t still be the sixteen-year-old he had wanted more than life itself. Now he put the memory of Morgan behind him as he heard the gallop of Garnett’s horse. He couldn’t afford to let the man he’d chosen to be his henchman see the feelings that had just been written on his face. Garnett had been hand-picked for his ruthlessness, and Jason knew that it was just a matter of time before the rattlesnake instinct was turned against himself. But the time hadn’t yet arrived, and he needed to use Garnett for the moment. And that meant not letting Garnett know that there was any way to pierce his own shell of heartlessness. Garnett dismounted beside Jason’s horse. Jason turned to face him, his face hard and cold. “They’ll be moving out by noon,” the younger man said. “Should be at the river in two days. I’ve packed up our gear.” Jason swung up onto his wiry little bay, and pulled him around, away from the herd. “Tell the men to stay their distance. I want to set this up myself, and they’d better be out of the way.” Jason put his rowels to the bay, who bolted forward, then shied away at the jerk of the bit that met his movement. Garnett wondered what had been eating at Jason. He knew it couldn’t be nerves, and the

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anger he’d seen in Jason’s face for a second had almost unnerved him. He mounted up to follow. The man was a strange one, all right. But so far, he hadn’t made any mistakes, and Garnett was still willing to wait and learn, at least for the moment.

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Chapter 10 MACGRUDER felt slightly uncomfortable in the Wilson study, as though no man belonged in it but the one who had hand-lathed every board in the walls. He was also hungry, and tired, but still glad he had come. He remembered with a grin the woman’s hair loose about her shoulders in the water, her clothes in a hurried pile beside the nonchalant gray gelding. Yes, even though it had taken an imminent range war to make him shed his schoolboy shyness, he was pleased that he had come to find her. A soft rustle made him look up. She stood in the doorway, her black taffeta dress shimmering russet in the glow of the evening fire. Yes, his instincts on the train had been truer than he had imagined. The jade green eyes, darker now in the shadows, met his directly. “Dinner is served, Mr. Macgruder,” she said. Then she flashed him her wide smile. “And I dare say you’re hungry enough to eat an elephant.” He gallantly extended his arm for her. The table was set with a silver candelabra, gleaming gently with many years of polishing. He realized she was waiting for him to hold her chair while he surveyed the room. A young woman appeared with a large platter of food and set it beside Morgan. As she served the dinner plates, Morgan introduced Maria. “I think you’ll agree with me, Mr. Macgruder, that Maria is a darned good cook. And may I add that

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she learned this culinary talent from her father, my foreman and godfather. Do you remember him from the train depot? Anyway, my father and Maria’s father lived for many years off Sam’s food, and of the two of us, their only children, Maria is the one who inherited the talent. I’m afraid to say my kitchen skills wouldn’t keep anyone but me alive, and that’s simply because I’m accustomed to eating my own poison.” Maria smiled above the glimmer of the candles, the reflection of their flames sparkling in her dark eyes. “Then I shall have a double purpose in going with you on the roundup, Miss Morgan. I can do the cooking, as well as see to your needs.” Macgruder very deliberately set his wine glass on the damask tablecloth. The thought hadn’t occurred to him that Morgan expected to ride with the rest of the ranchers. The silence at the table was as weighted as a race saddle with a heavy handicap. Then, very politely, with her back held ramrod straight in the chair, Morgan passed his plate. “Mr. Macgruder, I can discern from your expression that your reaction to my presence on the trail will be less than favorable. However, if you will refrain from commenting at this moment, we’ll discuss the matter fully after dinner, as we agreed.” Then she smiled the quick, impish smile that put him at ease and made him remember her matter-of-fact way of handing him a skein of yarn. “Okay, Miss Wilson, you win the first round. After dinner, as you please. Now, if you’d like, I could tell you all my wild tales about seeing The Tempest, and any other miscellaneous stories you’d like

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to hear.” She held out her hand to him. “Truce, sir. On with your wild tales, the more wicked, the better.” He reached across the table and felt her cool, small palm firm within his.

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Chapter 11 DINNER FINISHED, Morgan arose and led the way back into the study. “Brandy? My father always said that serious talk took brandy, fighting talk, moonshine whiskey and whoring talk, rum.” “Brandy then, please. I wouldn’t want you thinking I was up for either of the other two.” She brought the snifter to him on the horsehair sofa. Moving to the slow-burning fire, she stooped to stir the sparks. He felt, as much as watched, the sleek curve of her head and back, strong lines in the quickly rising light of the fire. Swiftly, she arose and turned to face him, one arm on the mantel, her other hand on her hip. “Now, before you have your say, I have a few words.” The light, pleasant tone she had used during dinner was gone. “I’m going to tell you that my foreman doesn’t trust you. You were a hired gun once, and as far as he’s concerned, that’s the mark of Cain and no number of good years can clean it away.” John suddenly felt as if all the farmers in the general store during those early days in the valley had risen up and pulled this guns on him. He should have known to expect his. The glass felt cold in his hand. Now, now is the moment to leave, you fool, he told himself. Daydreaming is over, and it’s time to go back to taking care of Virgil and the ranch. He stood and gently set the brandy on the table.

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She sensed his quiet anger. Going to stand before him, she placed a restraining hand on his arm. “I didn’t mean to be cruel. But this is my first move as the owner of this ranch, and I’m trusting you with something more important to me than my life. I let my father down badly, twice. He’s dead now. If I fail this ranch, I may as well just give up and die, too. So don’t you turn away from me, John Macgruder. You sit here and listen to my plan, because if you think it’ll work, then the other ranchers will back you up.” He felt as though he’d had the chair kicked out from under him and then been picked up, dusted off, and carefully reseated. The jade green eyes met his unwaveringly. The pressure of her hand on his arm tightened. “Do you hear me? I understand perfectly well that every cowboy on this ranch would rather have rolled up his gear and moved out of here when my father died if Sam hadn’t convinced them to stay. If the range trouble is going to be as bad as you say it will be, then I’ll need help from more than Sam and a few reluctant cowpokes or I’ll never get my cattle to the rails. Mr. Macgruder, I’m asking you to help.” Never in all his years with Virgil and in building his cattle empire had he ever felt more unable to stay angry. There was nothing he could do in the face of her calm belief in his innate goodness other than nod his head in assent. He sat down again on the sofa, and this time she took the wingbacked chair beside him, behind a small table laden with family daguerreotypes and ornamental curios.

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“Now,” she said, singling out a porcelain figurine, “this is Franciscan Wells. And this,” she said, pulling aside a candlestick, “is my uplands pasture. Three-quarters of my cattle will have to come down from here.” Selecting three small portraits, he placed them to the left of her candlestick. “These are the positions, relatively, of my herds and the other two biggest ranchers in the general area.” “How long would it take you to pull all the herds together, including the smaller ranchers who are in with you? Say, if you drive everyone to the foot of the Wells, not quite to the mission?” “Normally, three weeks. But driving hard, with some extra men if we can get them, a week and a half, maybe. And that’s if there are no problems at all, and everyone agrees to move together.” “Fine. Supposing everyone does agree. Then I have the shortest distance to move my herds. So I have a few extra days to get some pens built, here.” She pointed to the makeshift destination, the train depot. “Then, we move all our herds together to the pens, without trying to keep the brands separated. That’ll save us a lot of time in the foothills. “Then we divide our riders so that we have a man for each corral and begin cutting the herds at the railhead. The man reads off the brand of the cut cow, sounds out the corral number, the riders run it through the correct gate into the correct corral, where its brand is checked again. It could move faster than it’s taken me to explain.” He moved a few of the symbolic herds across the gleaming oak table. “You’re right about one thing.

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If we each start moving our herds, trying to keep them separated, then we’re losing our major advantage. We’ll be strung out from here to Kingdom Come, even if we start out at the same time. And if we all do a quick head count before the drive begins, we’ll save time at the railhead.” Her face was turned expectantly toward him. “Then you like the plan? You think it’ll work?” “Yes, I think it will work. It’s basically what was decided at the Cattleman’s Association meeting. The hard part will come when we’re finally at the railhead. But by then, it won’t be as important as having gotten through. That is, if we get through.” “We will. I’ll bet you a handmade sweater before the first snow flies that we won’t lose one percent.” “Just a sweater, Miss Wilson? I must confess, I hoped for something better.” He meant to tease, as well as dare. She rose quickly to her feet. “I must say, this is a different side to you than the taciturn man on the train. What do the other ranchers call you, Mr. Macgruder?” “Do you mean to my face? Or behind my back?” “To your face, of course. If I feel like calling you anything at all, you can rest assured that you’ll be the first to hear of it—it won’t be behind your back.” He laughed aloud, with the same deep contentment he felt when laughing with Virgil. “Usually, just plain Macgruder. Virgil, my foreman and co-owner of my ranch, sometimes calls me

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Jay. People in between, just plain John.” “Well, you may call me Morgan if I may call you John. Now, I suggest we retire for the evening. Our work begins tomorrow.” He watched her pause in the doorway, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the fire, from his teasing, from excitement over the fight ahead, he wasn’t sure which. He stayed up half the night with the rest of the bottle of brandy, wondering why he had ever thought of leaving his valley in California in search of just such a woman.

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Chapter 12 VIRGIL LEANED against the adobe wall of the monastery, intent upon inching every bone of his sixfoot, two-inch frame into the shade of a single scrawny oak. He wished he’d left his long underwear at home. Virgil, you’re really getting old when you pack a pair of long underwear to roundup in March. The beginning of March, at that. He could remember when he didn’t even own long underwear. Rolling a loose cigarette on his knee, he automatically kept an eye on the horizon. It was unlike Jay to be long past sunup when he knew there was a big job waiting. The rest of the hands had gathered about the chow wagon for an extra cup of morning coffee. He felt vaguely uneasy, although he knew John would be at the Wells soon. His lifelong friend hadn’t been changed by his months of gallivanting about. And it wasn’t that he begrudged John the time it had taken. He understood that at John’s age, everyday duties left something missing from his life, something that a few drinks at the Red Garter couldn’t supply. Something that even he, Virgil, couldn’t offer. The truth was there was no explaining the man, but he’d always been sort of moody. Deep inside him there was a soft part that Virgil knew would never let him rest contented with what would satisfy most other men. This time of year there wasn’t much dust, so he was surprised to see a swirl of pale yellow from the

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east. He stood and pulled the brim of his hat low against the still rising sun. Must be about twenty horses, at least twelve men, he figured. His instincts made him check his Winchester to make sure it was loaded and free of the saddle holster. Quickly, he called out an order to the vacqueros lounging about. “Look sharp, men. Looks like we’re going to have a lot of company, real quick.” He wasn’t sure if it was his instincts from the old days or the talk of range war that had him automatically expect trouble. Even as he tightened the cinches and dropped the stirrups off the pommel, he felt tension in the air and cussed John for not being there. John was better with words and talking his way out of trouble. One of the riders raised a hand in greeting. The red haze of the morning sun blurred the lines of the incoming riders and extra horses into an undulating black line. Then he saw the flash of a breastplate, the swing of the high white stockings on the horse. What’s John doing coming from the east with those men? Virgil mounted Paso, and rode out to greet him. As soon as he saw the woman on the gray, he understood. So this was the Wilson girl. Ignoring John, Virgil tipped his hat and took a long look. Dressed in men’s clothes, her hair tucked up in a broadbrimmed straw hat, she sat straight-backed and yet relaxed on the big gelding. An even-looking face, he thought to himself, nothing so special about her looks. But he had to admit that her eyes held his like pyrite shining in a stream bed. He figured this had to be a blunt-speaking woman. Well, thank goodness

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for that. At least she wasn’t the highbred lady he’d been fearing. He’d fully expected John to come home with a bride to set on the mantel like a show doll, and that would be the end of all peace in their household. The woman stretched one gloved hand out to him. “You must be Virgil Talbot. My foreman says you’re just about the best around. I’m Morgan Wilson. This old codger coming up now is my right hand and friend, trail boss, foreman, and man of a hundred other talents, Sam Rockbridge. Sam, this is Virgil Talbot. Do you think we can break for a cup of that good-smelling coffee?” He pumped her hand, then turned to her foreman. Well, at least she’d brought her own man along. He sure as hell had enough to do without riding herd on her crew as well as his own. Maybe this girl knew what she was doing, after all, but he’d have his doubts until she proved otherwise. The three of them dismounted by the Joshua tree. Oh, look,” she cried in delight as she ran her hand over the pale green and white blossoms. “My father called them the magnolia of the West. Some days he’d come home with a huge armful of the blossoms.” John saw a tightening about her mouth as she withdrew her hand from the petals and knew there were some memories in the moment. It was the first time he’d seen a crack in her composure. He quickly poured her a mug full of coffee and watcher her stare at it in silence for a minute. “Well, Virgil,” he said to break the tension, “are the men ready to move out? We’d better have a quick talk first. Will you excuse us, Morgan?”

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She nodded, and checking once more to see that the cinch was loose on the gray gelding, she walked toward a cluster of her cowboys. Virgil leaned against the tree. “Oh, you old fox, why didn’t you tell me you wanted to ride out to see that cute little chiquita while the tracks were still hot?” John dug a thumbnail into the bark of the Joshua tree. “It was nothing I could explain, Virgil. I got everyone to agree to the drive at just one meeting, then I thought, well, I’d better ride on down this way early and telling the Flying W what the story was.” “You know that’s not the whole story. Dammit, John, if you’ve got an itch for that lady, why, just say so. It won’t hurt to have her herd along, so long as she’s got the hands to take care of her own. So I’ll go along with you on this. I only have one other question, old friend. You don’t, by any chance, intend on courting her on the drive, do you? Hell, we’re using a new trail, and we’re going to have our hands full as it is, without having to play nursemaid to her while neither of you is tending to business.” Macgruder smiled. “Now listen, Virg. None of this was my doing. She came up with her own ideas about how to handle things when we get to the railhead, and then one thing led to another, and next I know, she’s in those britches and on that horse, waiting outside the corral for her men. There really isn’t a damned thing I can say about it either, since she’s the owner of most of the land hereabouts. In addition to which, she just happens to be a stubborn sort of female, and nothing you or I or anyone else could say would change her mind.”

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“Well, I don’t like it. She probably hasn’t got any idea of what sorta hell this is gonna be, and we can’t be stopping every five minutes for her to wash her hands and comb her hair. Did you try explaining that to her?” “I didn’t try to explain anything to her, Virg. She’s no high falutin’ lady. Listen, she grew up on that ranch, and I guess her father taught her that mothering cows is no easy way to live. And if she decides she’s had enough of eating dust and bad food, we can send her on to the railhead. Let’s not argue about it, what do you say?” “Well, it seems like there’s nothing I can say to you. But if anything starts to go bad, I’ll say it to her face, and we’ll ride it out from there. Sorry I landed on you with all fours, but I was starting to worry when you weren’t here at sunup. I was beginning to wonder if some extra ambitious gun had started hunting early.” John resisted the urge to throw an arm over his friend’s shoulder. “I’d say we’d better get some coffee before those fellas leave us an empty pot.” They turned and saw Morgan leaning back against a wagon wheel, her boots crossed at the ankle, her eyes shut against the steam of her upturned cup. “Virg, you were right, you know. About—about my itch.” “Yeah, I figure I’ve been around long enough to know how you think. Sashaying around museums and all couldn’t have changed you that much. Good luck, old pal. She sure looks like the type to take the

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bit and run.” “So long as it’s my bit.” He laughed the deep, quick laugh that meant the inside discontent was gone—at least, for the moment.

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Chapter 13 MORGAN CURLED up tighter under the blanket. Vaguely aware of the morning mist that dampened her saddle and put the taste of wet leather in her mouth, she tried to reject the knowledge that it was morning. Only half admitting that she was committed to waking up, she stared sleepily at Maria’s dark, dirt-matted head across from her. Sam was rolled in his blanket under the wagon tongue, his scuffed boots shaped by his feet, beside him. Well, she’d done it now. She was awake. She rolled over. Through the spokes of the chuck wagon wheel at their feet, she saw the twin trees at the edge of the watering hole. Then she remembered that today the herds were to start moving out together. The first part of the job had to be done. A stone pressing between her shoulder blades made her raise her arms. Even the pale blue light of the early hour couldn’t disguise the broken, dirty nails, the blisters half broken on her palms. It had only been a few days, but she felt as though it had been half her life. The back of her mouth was stale with not having had a proper brushing, and she was sure her hair had glued itself to the hairpins with sweat. Her hat hadn’t helped all that much either. Half the time she’d had to use it to wave a cow back into the herd, leaving her head to the mercy of the increasingly hot sun. Punching her burned nose with an index finger, she abstractedly wished she had a cucumber. A

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paste of green peelings and soured cream might dim the outrage of freckles across her cheeks. James’s sister would be positively horrified if she could see me now, she mused. Yes, my dear, I’m afraid you’re a total disgrace, she said under her breath, pursing her lips like prim, disapproving Sarah. She quickly rummaged in her saddlebag for a hairbrush. James could have smelled you across town, she thought; her clothes, as well as her person, needed a good scrubbing. Poor, fastidious James. He never guessed that beneath all that tambour Swiss cotton and that overscrubbed skin I was like this. Papa knew, but he never liked it. My mother would never have allowed herself to look like this, and he always wanted me to be like her. She forced herself to stop thinking of James, her father, and the other memories that cut too close. The deep hurt that always stabbed at her stomach when she had these thoughts arose again. Then she thought of what she was doing; it was what she’d always wanted to do, and she was doing her duty as well. She’d chosen this life, chosen to lie here in a dirty blanket with a saddle for a pillow and blisters on her bottom, on her hands, on her nose. She knew her father would have been proud, if he could have seen her. If he were alive today, he’d never have allowed her to try it. She glanced around to make sure everyone else was still asleep. The pond had been well trampled by the thirsty horses, but she figured she could wade out to the middle where the water was still fairly clear. She shook Maria’s shoulder. “Maria, wake up. If you hurry, we can get a bath before everyone’s up. Come on, we can wade over

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to where the trees hang down.” Maria opened one eye. “Miss Morgan, you’re crazy.” “Come on, I’ll hold a blanket for you, so no one will be able to see your skivvies. Then you can hold the blanket for me.” Maria yawned. “Por Dios, I sometimes think my mission in this life is to keep you from being attacked by some dirty vacquero on this drive. All right, let’s hurry.” They gathered blankets and waded out, hanging camisoles and clothing on drooping branches. Well, Morgan thought, sitting a few minutes later on the tail of the wagon, combing wet snarls out of her hair, that spit and polish just barely scratched the surface. One cowhand had rolled over in his blanket, and Maria had pulled her out of the water before she’d even had time to clean the dirt from under her chipped nails. At least she had on a clean, homespun shirt and a clean pair of knickers. The sun was beginning to rise in earnest. She heard the steady shuffle, thud, shuffle of the incoming herds before she even smelled them. She was happier that John Marcus Macgruder was coming than she wanted to admit. It was hard to put a finger on the attraction the man had for her. It wasn’t the pull she’d felt for the boy her father had despised and she loved, or the love she’d pretended she had for James. With both those men, she’d been blind to the major flaws beneath. The first time she’d been saved from a bad marriage by her father, the second by his death.

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She found a clean pair of socks and pulled on her boots. She’d be damned if John Macgruder was going to think that she’d tried to stay pretty and sweet-smelling for him. She’d ridden drag like any other cowhand, and if there was one look of reproach from that foreman of his, she’d...well, she’d let him know just how tough she could be by knocking him out of his fancy Spanish saddle. She heard the light, silvery ringing of the conchas on many decorated saddles. The sleeping men began to push back blankets and rub the sleep from their eyes as they rolled over. The awakening herd smelled the oncoming cattle, and low, animal greetings went out. She hurriedly plaited her wet hair and let it hang, dripping, down her back. The most difficult hours were just ahead, and she was determined to see them all the way through. She could hear the cattle coming like a train on the horizon. Eight herds do not tend to hide themselves in the underbrush, she thought, as she saw the chuck wagons in the distance. She wondered if Macgruder had told the other ranchers that she’d be riding with them. Probably not. He’s the type to sit back and watch their mouths fall open, just for the fun of it. These men weren’t total strangers to her. She had vague memories of meeting some of them in hotel lobbies in Sacramento when, home from school, she’d gone along with her father on a business trip. Every one of them had been on their lands as long as she could remember, working their spreads like small, medieval fiefdoms. She knew she would be looked on as an outsider once again. Men just don’t like women messing around in what they think is their business. Boy, howdy, were they going to be

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surprised to find it was her business, too. Well, gentlemen, here we go, she thought as she bent to pick up a cup of morning coffee that Maria had just finished brewing. She didn’t give a damn if they liked her, as long as they acknowledged her right to make the decisions for the Flying W. The morning haze was almost gone as she watched a small group of riders approaching her camp before the still distant cattle. The other owners rode straight to the picket line and tied their mounts. She knew that they hadn’t noticed her yet. She sat back on her heels, her hands to the fire, facing them. Just a nod in their direction, she reminded herself. This is like facing the irate parents of your students. Keep calm. As they approached, she pointed to the row of cups on the back of the chuck wagon. Each man took one, and they squatted down beside her around the coffee pot. “Glad you made it so fast. We just got out of our upper pastures ourselves.” She held the pot for the middle-aged man next to her. “I’m Morgan Wilson. I’m going along on this trail, in case Macgruder hasn’t already told you.” She let herself smile. No need to grin about this, she thought. They don’t seem surprised to see me here. She noticed that Macgruder and Talbot had come up behind her and were standing still, drinking their coffee. She felt less alone. The man next to her held out his hand. “Name’s Vanderhorst. From the southeast part of the north range.”

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She shook his hand firmly, in the manner of her father, rather than like the Philadelphia lady he’d hoped she’d become. Then, one by one, they leaned over to shake hands with her, man-to-man, or as close as they could come to that. “I was sorry to hear about your father, ma’am,” added Paul Blaze, a well-established rancher. “Thank you, Mr. Blaze. At least he was buried in Philadelphia next to my mother. I thought he would even have rather been buried there than on the Flying W.” She found herself able to speak matterof-factly about his death to these men she’d only just met for the first time since she’d been a child. Jan Vanderhorst knocked his clay pipe against his heel. “I don’t mean to be prying, Miss Wilson, but I heard from your father a long while back that you were a teacher back East and marrying someone back there. Might I ask if you’re going back after all this is over—this drive, I mean?” She understood why they weren’t surprised to see her. Rumors had gone around after word came back that her father had passed on suddenly while in Philadelphia for her wedding. “No, Mr. Vanderhorst, I won’t be going back East after we get the herds through. I plan to live the rest of my life on the Flying W, and to keep it as prosperous as my father made it.” She glanced at Macgruder. This whole time she’d avoided catching his eye, although she’d felt his gaze on her the entire time she’d been speaking. So far she hadn’t said a word directly to him. Their eyes met, and she suspected there was more to the acceptance she’d met than she knew about. Okay, John Macgruder, she acknowledged to herself, we all have our pasts, and when you’re ready with yours, I’ll level with my real

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reasons for eating dirt and sleeping on rocks for the sake of a herd of stupid cows. Virgil threw the dregs of his mug into the dead fire. “Well, gentlemen, I’d say we’ve palavered long enough. Just one more run-through, before we mount up. Everyone knows which sides your men will ride. Paul, you’re on the north point. Phil, John? Miss Wilson, you’re on the south side. Everyone else got their positions straight? Make sure your point riders have their eyes peeled for any extra tracks or hoof dust. Any signs, and they report back to John Macgruder. Understood? If we know when they’re coming, we’ve got ‘em half-licked. Now, we keep the cows tight, drive ‘em harder than we’d all like, and we get to the railhead by the end of next month.” Virgil stood and shook his cramping legs. “Good luck, fellas.” Morgan turned to Sam. “Okay, boss, you’re in charge from here on out. Where do you want me to ride? And I might add, it had better not be in the wagon with Maria.” Sam held Ariel’s bridle as she mounted. “Miss Morgan, you take no chances, do you hear me? These are no punk guns, and they aren’t bout to hold off from shooting you just because you’re a woman. You make sure that Colt you’ve got in that saddlebag is ready. I know your father didn’t believe in guns, but I also know you can handle them the way he taught you himself.” She took the well-oiled weapon in the palm of her hand for a second, then put it back in her saddlebag. Sam was right, she could shoot as well as any man, and not only because her father had taught her. Now was no time to quibble with her conscience. She knew if she had to use it to kill, she would.

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“I know, believe me, Sam, I know. I’m not about to take any chances. And don’t you go playing the hero, either.” He swung up onto his horse. “At least it’s a beautiful morning to start out.” She touched his knee to stop him from riding off. “I’ve written a new will, it’s in my dresser drawer, on top, on the right, at home. If I die, you’ll inherit the ranch. Now before you say anything, I want you to know that Father would have wanted this. You deserve the Flying W more than anyone else in this entire world.” She pretended to have lost her stirrup and leaned down to adjust it. “That isn’t right, Miss Morgan, and you know it. Do you hate your mother’s family so much? The land should stay in your family.” Sam looked genuinely angry. “You’re more family than they ever were. No, I don’t hate them, but you know they’ve always thought the land killed my mother. It’s just that, well. . . they hate this land. It would do neither of them, nor the Flying W, any good to leave it to them. No, Sam, I’ve thought it through, and that’s the way I want it. Besides, without you, we wouldn’t have one vacquero out there right now, and I know it. And no ranch can run without good hands. I don’t know what you said to them to make them stay on and work for a woman, but I know it wasn’t easy.” Sam stared into the distance. “I just told them the truth. That even if you were a woman, you’re still your father’s daughter, and that you’d do right by them and the ranch.” She reached over the distance between them to squeeze his hand. The understanding between them

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was complete. He knew now that she had really come home to stay. He saw Macgruder riding towards them, watching her affectionately touch the old cowpoke with eyes that, Sam knew, were sharper than the average man’s. Gunfighters don’t stay alive without seeing what other men never notice, he thought. Sam reined his horse about, leaving them to speak in peace. Riding off, he wondered if the gunfighter who had split father and daughter apart was still alive.

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Chapter 14 “HOW MANY more today, Jason?” The graying, lean-faced man turned toward the pistolero sitting across the desk from him. “The man we’ve got hiring in Sacramento said ten in the past two days. Looks like there’s no stopping them.” “That’s exactly the way I planned it. How many men altogether would you say we’ve got following their herd?” “Close to fifty, sixty, of the best guns riding for your money, Mr. Timberlake. A few extra punks are trailing along, camp followers trying to learn the trade.” “And what about at Dos Diablos, the railhead they’re aiming for?” “About twenty more men. We’ve got nothing to worry about.” “You mean, I haven’t got anything to worry about. You’ve got no real stake in any of this. You’ll get your money.” “Only my life, Mr. Timberlake. That’s my stake. When you’re the best hired gun around, you can’t afford to be a member of the losing side. Then the younger kids start trying to pick you off and thinking that it’s just one more step from bad taste in employers to a slow draw. No, I don’t expect to fail this job

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for you.” The man stared intently at the leaded-pane window behind the desk, his expression cold, and somehow, inhuman. “There are eight owners on the drive,” he continued. “Wilson, Macgruder, Vanderhorst, Dillard, Blaze, Wade, Varner, and Moos.” The rest are meeting them at Dos Diablos. A few bad stampedes, some backshot drag riders, and the cowboys won’t be too happy. Then we buy off some, run off the rest. We plug a few of the owners, make it look like they’ve been shooting it out among each other, and we’ve won, Mr. Timberlake.” There was a bitterness in his voice that made Timberlake edgy. But the man was the best pro around, he reminded himself. “I suggest the first thing we do is get rid of Macgruder and Talbot,” Jason went on. “They know too much about guns. They may start picking us off first. Besides, they’ve managed to pull together the other owners, and that’s dangerous. We don’t need any leaders in that group.” Timberlake cleared his throat. He was accustomed to doing most of the talking, but he felt strangely compelled to be silent while the man before him told him what to do. “My sentiments, exactly. But I want to make sure there are no problems, and that my name is kept out of this entirely. It has worked perfectly so far. They all think the Mexicans are pushing this. I had it from a spy at the Cattleman’s Association.” The gunfighter stood and walked to the gun cabinet in the corner of the room. He opened it, extracting a Remington with handworked silver on the stock. “I want Wilson for myself. A personal

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matter, but I must insist.” He stared at Timberlake, the rifle in his hands. Timberlake formed a steeple with this bone-thin fingers. “You’ve been down in Texas wat too long, Jason. Wilson’s dead. Not long ago, back East. His daughter came back just a few weeks ago. I hear she’s all decked out in britches and boots and is out there pushing cattle with her cowhands. That shouldn’t make any difference to a pro like you.” The gunman’s face had tightened perceptibly. “You’re sure about that?” “Ask anyone. Talk is that she’s running the place, with that old foreman of her father’s. Why the interest?” Timberlake noted that the gunman had become extremely tense, his knuckles whitening as he turned to replace the rifle in the gun cabinet. Moving like a whip on the verge of cracking, he returned to sit before Timberlake’s desk. Every line of his thin, dark frame bent in the chair as though the slightest word would spring him to his feet, gun in hand, eager to pistol-whip the barn cat howling outside the office window. “Nothing special. I just wanted a chance to shoot the old bastard myself. An old score to settle. Sorry I missed my chance. Don’t worry about me—if the girl gets in the way, she’s nothing to me but another dead owner. She’s taking her chances out there, like anyone else. And I know her well enough to know she’s fully aware of that.” Timberlake was vaguely surprised. For the first time since he’d sent for Roth Jason to start planning his range fight, the hired killer had lost the air of detached iciness that went with his reputation. It was a

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measure of the man’s hatred for Wilson that the ice had melted for a moment, he thought. “Just out of curiosity, have you ever seen the Wilson girl, Jason? Word is that she’s nothing much to look at.” Jason barely spat out the words. “I worked for her father once, a long time ago, when I was just a kid. That’s all. Don’t push, Timberlake, I’ll get your job done for you.” The tone was final and deadly. Jason stood, pulling on a blue wool jacket. He pushed open the heavy oak door of the office. “Just remember, Mr. Timberlake, I’ll take care of my end of the bargain, just you make sure of yours. I’ll be expecting the $10,000 to be in the Monterey Bank by the fifth of next month.” “Your money will be there when my colleagues are dead or bankrupt. I don’t want those herds reaching Dos Diablos, Jason.” Timberlake knew how far he could push the man, and he wanted Jason to know he wasn’t afraid of him. “Then, Mr. Timberlake, I’d say we understand each other completely. I’ll be expecting you at the railhead by the end of the month. Shall I say adios for the moment?” With a quick touch of his hat, Jason strode onto the weatherbeaten porch. Across the compound, an old Indian woman stood by the horse rail in front of the big house, beating a faded crazy quilt in the late afternoon light. Jason stood, staring at the rotund figure, his thoughts far away. He wondered if Morgan’s hair had kept its red, if she still refused to wear a bustle and corset, and rode astride like a man. Stop it, he said to

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himself, those days are long gone, and she didn’t really want you, even back then. He thought he’d forgotten her. It was hard to realize he was hoping to see her, at least once more. “Garnett,” he called out suddenly to one of the many young men leaning against the corral fence. The younger man, wearing a low-slung gun, slowly disengaged himself from the rails. “Saddle up. We’re riding out now. The rest of you men leave for Dos Diablos tomorrow, first light.” There were a few half-smiles. Most of the lounging men pulled out guns with filed sears and began preparing to clean the already over-polished barrels one more time. Jason and Garnett saddled up and moved out, leaving the others behind. The older man rode with one hand on his thigh, just under his coat, beside the strapped down handgun, and held the small, wiry bay with loose reins in the other hand. The bay knew that it was to be a long ride and settled into a slow, low-stepping trot. Garnett was having a hard time pacing his long-legged horse next to Jason’s. “I swear, Jason, I sometimes think old age has gotten you before any bullet could. Now what in hell are we doing riding off like this, leaving behind all those men you’ve spent weeks pulling together? I thought the whole idea behind a job like this is to hit them while they’re moving until enough of the big ones are picked off.” Roth Jason jogged on silently for a few minutes before replying. “Garnett, you ever heard of

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tactics?” The other man shook his head slightly. “Well, that’s when you figure out in a war what the other side thinks you’re going to do, and then you don’t do that, you do something else they haven’t thought of. It’s like putting only three shoes on a horse. It keeps him off balance. That’s what you and I are going to do. We’re not doing what those ranchers expect from us. Why the hell else do you think all those big ranchers pulled together, when they never had before? I’ll tell you why.” Roth turned to stare at Garnett. “That’s just what they expect from us. Don’t you think men like Macgruder know what happened in Wyoming?” Garnett looked away from Jason. This job has Jason shook but good, he thought to himself. “You and I, we’re going to play some games with that herd,” Jason went on. “Odds are, every man on that drive is completely armed and watching over his shoulder for a whole army of bushwhackers. But two men will blend into the hills. We”ll do just enough damage to rattle their nerves and spread the herd from hell to perdition before they get to Dos Diablos. By that time, they’ll be so edgy, they’ll shoot at anything that jumps. We set up a few of them, make it look like self-defense. It’ll scare the other ranchers. The smaller owners will get the right idea and decide it’s just not worth the risk to even try for the railheads this year.” Garnett didn’t say a word. Jason had a reputation for running a smooth operation, which was why he’d decided to join up with him for this job in the first place. He really preferred going it alone, but he

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was smart enough to see that those days wouldn’t last forever. Someday, he’d run the show for big men like Timberlake. Right now he’d bide his time and learn what had earned Roth Jason the big name he’d carried in four states. Garnett had been surprised when he had met Jason in a saloon in Nevada. He’d been working on building up his own reputation as a fast gun and knew he needed to kill just the right big name gunslinger. This man drinking a beer beside him, covered with layers of dust and wearing a rancher’s hat, had seemed like a nowhere kind of drifter at first. But finally, Garnett had noticed the air of deference with which the barkeep had asked the “drifter” if he wanted another beer. The cowpoke just shook his head, never turning his back to the barren room for even the second it would take to reply. Garnett too had turned and faced out toward the man who stood beside him. A high wind had come up, as it had from time to time for the past few days, pushing the half-shut doors of the saloon wide open, tumbling street dirt and rubble across the wide-planked pine board floor. It had pushed slightly at the canvas duster the cowpoke wore, enough to show Garnett the gun, underneath the coat. Then Garnett knew that he’d found another one of his own kind. “You any good with that?” He had faced Jason, being careful not to let his hand drop to his own gun. He wanted to find out what he was going up against before he tried it. He was young, but not that dumb. “Why do you want to know?” The man never looked at Garnett and made no effort to close the coat

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again. From the tone of the reply, Garnett realized that he might have bitten off more than he could chew, at least at this stage of the game. “Just looking for work, mister. I figured you’re a hired gun and thought you might know of a place where I can get a job using this.” He pointed at his holster, sluing low and tied tight to his thigh. Jason looked directly at Garnett for the first time. Garnett had been surprised by the lack of life in the eyes and knew that he’d found himself a big one in a one-saloon town in Nevada. “How do you feel about California? There’s work out there, if you’re any good with that gun.” The words were spoken loudly enough for anyone in the room to hear them. The barkeep moved to the far end of the bar. “I’m good, getting better. Name’s Garnett. California is as good as any place, I suppose.” And so had started his apprenticeship with Roth Jason. He had learned more in one month with Roth than he could have in a year with any of the other men he’d come up against so far. But he hadn’t yet learned enough to make his move, he was smart enough to know that. Jason and Garnett rode until the last bit of light left the land, and they were forced to set up camp for the night. Garnett thought of what Jason had said about tactics and added it to his mental notebook. Later, watching Jason half asleep, his hand on his gun, he wondered how long it would be before Jason made a miscalculation, and someone else thought about those tactics a step faster. Garnett dozed off,

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thinking that Jason was already too old to be a gunfighter.

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Chapter 15 SHE GRADUALLY wore sufficient calluses on her hands and her bottom to make tolerable the eighteen hours a day in the saddle. She had given up on the hat and gloves, having decided that she spent more energy trying to protect her skin from the elements than it was worth. Macgruder hadn’t spoken with her much since the night he’d outlined his plan in her study. He seemed to avoid all the other owners as well, however. It was as though he deliberately set himself apart from them, so as not to give them the opportunity to snub him. She knew enough about Macgruder’s early days in the valley to realize that the separation, begun for real reasons, was by now no more than an ingrained habit. But she watched him. She saw the way he sat with his back to the wagon, facing out. His men were always somewhere close at hand, and she had the feeling that they all were ready to protect him if for one instant his guard should, inadvertently, be dropped. Talbot was the worst. He reminded her of a faithful guard dog, quiet and content with his corner until a stranger passed onto the forbidden turf. They were always together, Talbot and Macgruder. She waited to hear them speak to each other, but they seemed instead to act with a unison that oddly reminded her of long-married couples she had known in Philadelphia. They anticipated each other with a regularity

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that demonstrated how the two of them had united to overcome the odds set up against them from the beginning of their days as cattlemen. She, too, knew the feeling of facing odds, of feeling alone and left out, and of aching for some small measure of support from anyone, anywhere.

ONE EVENING, long after the others turned in for the night, she found she was unable to sleep. The herd was restless; their calling out and shuffling, for some unknown reason, alarmed her. She wondered if the trouble was starting, or it was just a bad night for the cattle, too. She pulled on her boots and wandered out to the edge of the camp to see if she could calm herself. She didn’t realize he’d been standing beside her until he spoke. “I heard it, too. Doesn’t sound right tonight, does it?” She jumped, her hands clutching the edge of her blanket to her. He put an arm across her shoulder, as though to steady her. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Sorry.” He left his arm where it was, and she felt herself pulling closer toward him. “I know what you mean. It’s as though they’re out there talking to each other, and they know that something’s going to happen to them, so they want to be ready. Do you think we’re in for trouble soon?” “We’ve been in it for a while now. Have you seen the dust that comes up behind us? They’re out

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there, have been for weeks now, enough of them to wipe out the entire lot of us all at once, if they want to. They’re just waiting for the right time, for instructions, for I don’t know what. But I get the feeling they’ve waited long enough.” In the moment that he’d pulled her closer to him, she’d felt the gun at his side. She realized guiltily that she’d left hers packed in the saddlebags. She still couldn’t get used to carrying it everywhere she went. She almost laughed, as she wondered where she could put it when she took one of her quick, private sponge baths. “ I want you to know that I can take care of myself. You don’t need to protect me.” She wanted him to acknowledge that she was an owner, like him, like the others, and capable of facing whatever happened next. “I didn’t mean to imply, Morgan, that you aren’t prepared for trouble. I just thought you’d like a little company out here. I haven’t noticed too many of the other owners taking the time to talk with you much. I guess we’ve all been too busy to get to know you.” She tried to see his expression, but the moon was hidden behind clouds and the night was dark. “They don’t cotton to you much, either. I get the feeling that we two are the stray dogs of this outfit. Except, of course, they’re afraid of you and respect you enough to listen to what you say. I’m nothing to them, and never will be. But my ranch still means something, so they won’t leave me out of it entirely. Some day, maybe, they’ll accept me for what I am. I’ve earned respect for my ability before, and I can do

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it again.” She was surprised to hear him laugh, a low, quick sound. “I’ll have you know I earned my living as a schoolteacher, Mr. Macgruder. And I was a good one. It was unheard of in my family for a woman to earn her own living, but I did it anyway. My mother’s people were downright horrified. My father couldn’t do anything about it. He’d paid for all that fancy education I got back East, and since he wasn’t supporting me, he couldn’t tell me what to do. It came as a real shock to him. I don’t think he ever got over the fact that I was so different from my mother.” She hadn’t meant to say that last. It was already too personal; she had surprised herself. “I have the feeling you never do anything but the unexpected. I was right taken aback when you handed me that ball of yarn.” She half expected him to ask her what she had done to shock her father. Not yet willing to tell him the answer to that question, she was grateful for his tact. “If you had told me your name then, I’d have known who you were. I’ve always heard stories, since I was a kid, about John Marcus Macgruder. You were quite a legend. I remember the year you settled in the valley.” She felt him tense. “I didn’t know I was a legend. Somehow, I don’t feel old enough to be put in that category yet.” “I didn’t mean to imply that. But, well, you know what I mean. I would still have asked you to hold my yarn, legend or not. I needed to finish up that skein.”

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He laughed again. “I was wrong about your doing the unexpected all the time. I would have known before you said it that you aim to do the most practical thing. You’re very much like your father in that, Miss Wilson. He was one of the most down-to-earth men I ever met.” It was her turn to tense up. “My father and I were too alike, John. You may not know it, but he had no intention of leaving me this ranch unless I married a man who would run it for me. Unfortunately, he felt he had to approve the man, and the men I would have chosen were not in the acceptable category. He was traveling to my wedding in Philadelphia when he had the heart attack. He wrote out a one-paragraph, handwritten will just before he passed on, giving me the ranch because he thought I would be married anyway, and he approved of my choice. I’m afraid I did his memory a great dishonor; I packed my trousseau up and caught the first train out of Philadelphia—without the husband.” This time he really laughed. She hadn’t been aware that what she said had sounded funny. “I’m glad I amuse you, Mr. Macgruder.” The laughter stopped. “No, no, Morgan, it’s just that I was imagining how the poor fellow felt, left behind in his wedding suit, when he learned that his big attraction was the ranch and not his many charms.” “He knew. And he didn’t care. He wanted the ranch more than he wanted me, anyway.” Her voice became icy at the thought of James and his blatant way of stating the obvious. It would have made life so much easier if he’d pretended, at least, to be infatuated with her.

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She felt Macgruder’s hand tighten on her shoulder. Then, at the same moment, they heard it. At first she thought it was thunder, many miles away. But the smell that came with the sound was frightening; it was the odor of fear. Living things were deadly afraid, and they were getting ready to run. He pulled her toward the camp. “Get your men mounted up. They’re stampeding.” She felt her throat tighten until she couldn’t breathe. The rumble grew fiercer. “Stampede!” She heard him waking the camp. A flurry of movement mesmerized her as she watched the sleepy men throwing saddles on horses before they pulled on britches. Sam flew past her, his saddle thrown over his shoulder. He saw her and paused for one second. “Get in the wagon with Maria. Stay there!” He ran past her for the corral. She dropped the blanket she’d been clutching around her shoulders as though it could protect her from the fright of the herd. Her saddle was by the wagon. She raced for it. She saw Ariel, shining palely in the night, loose in the remuda. The other men mounting up didn’t pay attention to her as Ariel came to her call. The horse took the bit and stood calmly as she laced the girth with fingers that refused to work smoothly. She wondered how her hands, which had once taught piano and painting, had suddenly become as thick as elephant legs. She tried to think of the right thing to do. She remembered her father had always said it was no use trying to stop a runaway herd, all you could do was steer it, keep it from scattering, and aim it away from danger.

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She looked for Sam, to follow his lead. Ariel would know more about what should be done than she. Horses were kicking, slipping and sliding in their hurry to respond to the rowels that dug into their sides as their riders drove them toward the herd. She heard it then. The sound was furious, a scream of animals who had lost all sense or reason. They were running with a strength that made the ground fly up around her as she threw her foot in a stirrup and pushed to mount Ariel. He shied, and she almost lost the reins. She quickly pulled him in and gave him a fast stroke on his silken neck. “Whoa, boy,” she whispered to him. “You and I have much work to do.” It was as though Ariel knew. She never touched him with her heels, but he was flying at a dead run toward the herd, his gray neck already flecked with sweat. The steers were up and running, with hooves that sliced into bloody bits each other and anything else that got in their way. But they were still together, running in a mass that amazed her with its speed and strength. She saw the men racing alongside, waving their hats and shouting unintelligible words at the animals, trying to use the force of their voices and their horses’ bodies to keep the edges from widening until the herd was scattered over ten states. She felt Ariel pull onto one of the edges, and she let him take the bit. He kept pace with the herd, his huge lungs breathing fiercely as he lunged along. The fear left her. The dust from the herd clogged her lungs until she could hardly breathe, but it was as though the scene was a long distance away, and she was watching through bring-’em-close glasses

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from a far-off hill. The steers, the flailing men and horse, were like windup toys for children. She heard herself screaming out to the cows, leaning into the edges as Ariel pulled them together even tighter with the huge power of his body. She realized that the reins were loose in her hands, and that Ariel had complete control. Then she felt him stumble. His left shoulder dipped, and she thought for a second that the horse was going to pull away from the herd and out into the unknown. But he continued to lean to the right, using his shoulder to nudge the stampeding cows, only now his pace was slower, and she felt him weaken as the other animals started to slam into him. He was losing ground quickly. She reached out to stroke his neck, trying to keep still and not shake his precarious balance, when she felt the jerk of his left front leg again. The dead, flat-out run slowed to a gallop, with the left leg swinging wide and irregularly. She knew then that he was hurt, and that he’d never be able to sustain the drive that would keep them both away from the swarm of hooves that threatened to knock his other legs from under him. She pulled in the reins, hoping to give him the bit to lean against, to collect him enough to pull him free from the tide that had surrounded them like locusts on a wheat field. He responded to the pull of her hands and became less wild, but the pace slowed dangerously. She knew that unless they managed to get loose within the next few seconds, they would go down together. She felt, rather than saw, the horse next to her. The gelding matched Ariel stride for stride as he leaned over to pull her from the saddle.

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“Hold his reins; give him his head as I lead him out,” Macgruder screamed into her ear. She shook her boots free from the stirrups and pushed herself out of the saddle as he lifted her over Ariel’s back. She clung to the reins. The running pace of the gelding slowed for a fraction of a second as she threw her leg over the cantle, and then he swerved to the left, pulling her arm from her shoulder as Ariel at first refused to give up the herd and jerked his head away from her. “Ariel!” she screamed at him. She saw him turn his head away from the steers and toward her. Macgruder leaned to the left again, and his cutting horse veered off sharply with the weight of his body. This time Ariel knew what to do. The big gray threw his lame leg in the direction of the other horse and plunged through the cows that separated them. They scattered. She felt her hands tearing as she pulled at the bridle, trying to keep Ariel’s head up so that he could see the plunging cattle. His eyes were wild, but he followed. She clutched Macgruder’s shirt in her left hand, digging her fingers into the flesh beneath in an effort to keep her seat behind him. Her knees held like glue to the back flaps of the saddle, and she felt the even rhythm of their bodies together as they both leaned into the gallop of the gelding. She could hardly see anything in front of them. The ocean of cows was so vast that she feared Macgruder didn’t know which direction would take them away from the heart of the herd. Then she saw the small stand of cottonwood ahead. The stragglers jumped and stumbled their way around the trees as the herd raced past. Macgruder forced the two horses between the two largest of the trees. She felt the buffet of the cows as they knocked into the gelding in their fright to avoid the obstacle in their path. She

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could feel the horses trembling together as they skittered back and forth between the two protecting trees. She had never before really smelled cottonwood trees. Suddenly, she was aware of a strong, bitter smell surrounding them like incense in a church. The stripped bark of the trees flew about them like kindling as the razor-sharp hooves of the cows sliced away at the shallow roots of the trees. She buried her mouth in the fabric of Macgruder’s shirt and tried to stop the smell by breathing in the odor of his sweat and wet leather and by fiercely willing herself to survive the torrent around them. It seemed to her like hours that she clung to him, her hands aching from clutching his body to hers, Ariel’s reins embedded in her palms so strongly that they had become numb. She forced herself to breathe, to shut her eyes to keep from becoming dizzy with the swirl that raced around them. Then it was past them. It seemed as though the sound was a little less deafening, the pace of the herd slowing slightly. The groups that knocked into the cottonwood stand were trotting now, calling out with low, plaintive cries to their fellows instead of the high-pitched screams of panic that still echoed in her head. She forced her fingers to loosen their grip. Then she realized that she was trembling from foot to head. It was something she couldn’t control; it had seized her in the moment that she realized that the worst was over. Macgruder reached behind and tried to hold her. “It’s all right,” she heard him call out to her, “it’s over, don’t be afraid.” She was about to cry. She hadn’t cried in years, and now she felt like bawling like a lost calf for its mama. She forced her knees to loosen their grip and tried to climb down from his saddle. But still he

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held her, one arm locked around her waist at an awkward angle. She knew that as soon as her feet hit the ground, she would feel like her bones were jelly. “Ariel,” she said into Macgruder’s ear, as she tried to clear her throat of its coating of dust. “I’ve got to see how Ariel is.” He finally released her. She slid to the ground and found that she had been right, she couldn’t stand. He leaped down to help her. She tried to push him away, and then found that she was holding him even more fiercely than she had a moment before. “Take a deep breath,” he ordered her. She tried a few and found herself coughing with the effort. She felt weak with trying to stand. Then she tried again to push him away. “I’m all right, I’m fine.” She looked up into his steel-colored eyes and saw that he was truly frightened for her. Then, as he saw that she was regaining control, he let his fear turn to anger. “You fool! You could have been killed. Whatever made you think you should get out there? I heard Sam tell you to get into the wagon.” She had never before heard such antagonism in his voice. “It’s my herd, too! I had to do my part. We were doing okay until Ariel went lame. And don’t say we weren’t. I know we were.” She pushed free of him and tried to wipe the dirt away from her eyelids, so that she could see Ariel. The cries of the cowboys were dying down; they had switched to a wordless crooning meant to put the uneasy herd at ease. She heard them as though they were a million miles away. She ran her hand down

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Ariel’s shoulder to his hoof. He sashayed away, but then, at her insistent pull at his fetlock, lifted the left leg. She placed the hoof between her bent knees and felt the stone that had lodged in the throat of the hoof. She pried it out with her fingertips, letting it drop, as she realized that they both could have been killed because of one small stone and a bruised hoof. Macgruder had mounted up again. “Stone,” was all she said to him. He nodded. “Can you get him back to camp?” He was looking down the trail, to the slowly quieting herd. “We’ve lost a lot of men tonight. I don’t know how many were backshot, and how many were sliced to ribbons by the herd, but it’s bad. I’ve got to check.” She nodded, then saw that he wasn’t looking at her. “Yes,” she replied in her strongest voice. She was surprised at how small she sounded. He glanced down at her for a second. “Don’t do anything that stupid again. You may think you can do anything a man can do, but you’d better learn how first.” She began to weep with fury as he galloped off, shouting out instructions to his men.

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Chapter 16 TIMBERLAKE began with the newest rifle. The room was lined from top to bottom, all four walls, with them. They shone softly in the half-light of the heavily draped windows, their silver and brass cleaned repeatedly, the barrels unsullied by dust or grime of any sort. He thrilled every time he walked into the room and the collection came into view. It was different tonight, however. He oiled and rubbed with the same single-minded precision as always, but a part of his mind was on the trail with his men. His janissaries. All of his planning through the years was coming to fruition, at long last. He put down the Winchester and walked over to the globe mounted on a mahogany stand. Twirling it with one hand, he let his fingers slide slowly over the bumps and ridges the globe maker had used to indicate the mountain ranges of the world. He stopped the orb and felt, as he had many times in the past years, the outline of the Greek nation, how it sat between the bulk of Asia Minor and the solid mass of Europe, Rome, the East. Timberlake had read all the could of the life of Alexander. “The Great,” he had been called. While still a young man, he had conquered empires from one continent to the next, marching through desert and snow to take what he had wanted. Timberlake had begun to style his pale hair after the manner of the statues of Alexander he had seen in the history books, brushed forward, short, a few curls on the nape of

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the neck. But Alexander had died too young. So he had studied more, about the ferocity of the Ottoman Empire. Like true predators, the Turks had gobbled up the lands before them, driving the weak and unprepared to their knees. He had studied the way they had done it and found that janissaries, hired warriors, the fiercest of the fierce, men with no heart or soul, were what he needed to accomplish his task. He had seriously thought of sending to Turkey for his men. But then he had realized that he would find the same thing, right in his own country. It had come to him one day when he had been in a small dirt town in Arizona, buying more cattle from a big ranch about to go under, and had stopped in the local saloon for a quick whiskey to toast his victory. The rancher he had bought the steers from had never realized that Timberlake had persuaded the local banks to refuse to finance him through the drought season one more time. Timberlake had sat at one of the heavy oak tables alone, driving away the offered companionship of the saloon girls with one fierce glare. He had no time or inclination for the company of useless women. Alexander, after all, had married princesses of conquered countries as a way of appeasing the populace, and not through any desire for the women themselves. Then he had come out of his self-congratulatory reverie to see the fight start. The younger man of the two threw his glass of beer onto the shirt of the man on his right. Timberlake knew from the stance, the strap of the gun, that the man being insulted was a

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professional. His words had been unintelligible to Timberlake, but the snarl said it all. The few men and the women had scattered for protection. Timberlake kept his seat. He did not fear the stray bullet; he was certain that his destiny required more of him. The two men had pulled apart a few paces, their eyes never leaving each other, their hands jumping for the triggers of their revolvers with nervous anticipation. The shots had rung out not seconds later, and the younger man had slumped sideways onto the brass bar rail. The gunfighter hadn’t even stopped walking toward the door to see if the man was dead. His face was blank, there was no feeling in the eyes that Timberlake could discern. And so Timberlake had known how he could start to gather his janissaries. He had left his whiskey on the table and followed the gunman onto the dusty street. As soon as he had heard the swing of the doors, the gunhawk had twirled, his hand on his gun. “You looking for a fight, too? I’d say you’re a mite old to be so stupid.” Timberlake had looked into the pale blue of the eyes staring into his and with the strength of a man who knew he had the power to kill, and he had been sure of his decision. “I want to hire you. I need you and more like you. My name is Timberlake.” The gunman had said nothing, but turned on his heel and strode toward the far end of town, his rowels ringing in the stillness that had clutched the town after the killing in the early afternoon. Timberlake had chosen a cheroot from his vest pocket and followed the man at his own leisurely pace.

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They had made their deal standing in the smithy’s part of the town stable, the gunfighter saddling up his horse and loading up his gear. Roth Jason had been his man by the end of that afternoon. Timberlake knew he had his first and most important weapon in his campaign and that once he unleased it on his intended victims, there would be no mercy. Roth Jason was as devoid of feeling and human emotion as a lead bullet. Timberlake understood all about fine weapons and he used his money and finest oil on this one. He had been overjoyed at his good fortune. Remembering his first meeting with Jason, Timberlake chose one of the rifles on the wall and unlocked the ammunition cabinet beneath. He felt like taking a few shots today, just for the exercise, to keep his hand in. He knew he did his best hunting from behind his desk, with his money and power and wits. But every now and then he had the urge to do the job himself, all of it. He had been thinking all night of the army of gunhawks who were dogging the trail of the herd right now, the herd that, if it arrived at the railhead at all, would be so demoralized and leaderless that he would be able to buy up every one of them at a pittance of their real worth. Once the owners who were still alive realized what had happened, they would see that it was hopeless to try to keep their spreads going. They would be willing to sell cheaply, once they got over their initial anger and indignation. Because he would make it clear as he paid out the small and insufficient funds to them, that the same thing would happen to them the next year, and the year after that, and the year after that. No rancher who knew anything would believe he could survive even two years of disaster.

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Timberlake had done this before, on a very small scale, not enough to attract attention. His acreage had grown into three states, and he was going to go after the biggest spreads in Montana. But Montana would have to wait for this little escapade to be completed. After this small war was over, his name would be known across the nation. The president of the United States would know Timberlake was a man to be reckoned with. He wondered suddenly if the president had a daughter. That would be fitting, he thought. He was standing on the front veranda, waiting for one of his peons to bring up his horse, when the rider came tearing across the hills that surrounded his fiefdom. Cradling the rifle in his arms, Timberlake watched the blood bay, lathered and bit-weary, stumble to a dead stop at the white railing that protected the main house from wandering cattle. “Mr. Timberlake, Mr. Timberlake!” The man’s voice rang out. Timberlake strode off the veranda, watching warily to see if the man would get off the horse first. He had to be cautious these days, his reputation could have spread faster than he had anticipated, and he didn’t want to be an easy target. The cowboy, upon closer inspection, was no cowboy. The signs were all there; the rancher had become expert at recognizing them. It was one of his janissaries, one of the young guns that Jason had recruited. The gunhawk stumbled off the horse and clutched his hat to his chest. “Mr. Timberlake, Mr. Jason sent me. I got here as fast as I could. He said to tell you it’s started. We stampeded the herd the other

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night, and they lost a lot of men, more steers. The plan is working.” Timberlake allowed himself a small smile. “Good. Go over to the bunkhouse, and get something to eat. Then get back to Jason. Tell him I want to be there at the end, at the railhead, and to let me know when I can expect to see him bring my herd in.” The gunfighter staggered away, leaving the heaving horse with his head hanging in the dust. Timberlake looked around for one of the hands to take care of the horse. He couldn’t tolerate a man who didn’t take care of his tools, and a horse was a good tool to men like the gunfighter. He would be sure he remembered the man, so that he didn’t hire him again. He wouldn’t trust him after his thoughtlessness with the horse.

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Chapter 17 JASON POURED himself another cup of coffee, then kicked ashes over the coals of the fire. He was in a hurry to get the job done and over with, but he knew that patience was going to wind it all down faster in the long run. That was where the young gunfighters coming up today made their mistakes. They were all in such a hurry that they didn’t take time to sit back and assess the situation. Setting up the stampede had taken a few days, but when it had happened, it had happened right. He knew that the herd had been so scattered to hell and back that it would take a few days for the owners to recover the lost time, if ever. It hadn’t been a complicated plan, but still he had taken his time setting it all up. He had sent Garnett with his instructions over to the gang of men he had circling the herd. Then he had gotten a good night’s sleep. He pulled a bring-’em-close glass from his saddlebags and mounted up. He wanted to check out what kind of progress they were making in getting the herd back on the trail. His next plan wouldn’t go into effect until they hit the river, and he wanted to make sure he had enough time to set it up before they got there. He knew that Macgruder, at the very least, could guess what his plans were. Macgruder had the same instincts as his own, and while he perhaps hadn’t been sure until the stampede, Jason knew it wasn’t

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going to be quite as easy again. Macgruder would be on his guard and make sure that the others were too. Jason pulled his horse to a stop on a small rise a few miles from the herd and dismounted. It took only a few seconds to focus the glass and see that the cowboys had worked through the night to pull in the stragglers. And that several other men were riding the perimeters of the herd, their rifles drawn and held on their pommels. He pulled his glass to the outer edges of the herd and saw that his own men were doing as he had ordered, through Garnett. They were simply camped, waiting their next move. Jason turned the sights back on the men riding the brush looking for lost steers. He froze as he saw the long hair, tied at the base of her neck with a cord, the ends flying wildly as she tried to rope in a calf. Her chaps, a little too large for her, made her look bigger in the saddle than he remembered. She waved her rope and a hat at the recalcitrant animals and turned in his direction as one of the steers bolted away. It was her. He wanted to put down the glass, but found he couldn’t. After so many years, he felt the sudden tear at his side that had lasted for so long after she failed to meet him that night to ride off with him. He put down the glass and rubbed his face with his gun hand. He suddenly felt clammy in the growing heat of the morning, as though an attack of the fever was coming upon him. He hadn’t thought it would affect him so much, seeing her again, even though only as a tiny figure through a lens. He stood and consciously pulled his muscles into tighter, harder lines. He knew what he had to do, and the fact that Morgan was in the way would have to mean nothing to him. Even though she’d been the

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only woman he’d ever loved, with a passion that had never really left him, he had to know that he could face seeing her die. She had been dead in his dreams since the night she had failed him. It had been the only way he could understand her letting him down, choosing her father and the life her father wanted for her over what they could have had together. He made himself stop the memories. They would only get in the way of what he knew he would do. Placing the glass in his saddlebag, he forced himself to think of his next attack on the herd.

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Chapter 18 SHE STOPPED for a few minutes and rinsed her mouth with what water she had left in her canteen. She could get used to the dust and the blisters and the constant dirt, but the burning that bit at the back of her throat was almost more than she could bear. She tied Ariel’s reins to a few branches of a scrub brush and leaned against the saddle, trying at the same time to ease the ache in her back. She ran her hand down Ariel’s foreleg, checking again to make sure there was no swelling from the accident of the night of the stampede. Ariel heard him approaching before she did. She hadn’t tried to talk with him since that night. He had been too busy, and so had she, so she had the perfect excuse for keeping a civil tongue. But now, as he stopped beside her, she found that she was simply too tired to give him the tongue lashing she felt he had earned. “You look bushed. The worst is over. Why not ride in the wagon with Maria for a while?” She turned to stare at him. “I’m no more tired than anyone else. I don’t expect favors from anyone, thank you. I’ll ride in the wagon when I’m ready to, and not before.” She wondered at the huskiness of her voice and realized that she had almost lost it by shouting at the wayward steers she’d been working to pull in.

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Macgruder stepped down from his horse and tied the gelding next to Ariel. “I wanted to tell you I was sorry. I mean, I didn’t want you to think I was angry with having to save you. I was just angry at being worried about you.” She stopped her first reply. She hadn’t thought he’d apologize. “I didn’t realize that. I didn’t want you to worry. Sam does enough of that for the two of you. You should have heard what he had to say. But you both have to realize that I can take care of myself. If it had been my father on Ariel, and the horse had picked up a stone, you would have done the same thing for him that you did for me. The fact that I’m a woman had nothing to do with Ariel’s going lame. You must see that.” He beat the dirt off his chaps with his hat. She saw that the creases at the corners of his eyes were deeper. He wouldn’t look at her directly. He waited a moment before replying. “But if you’d been a man, and the same thing had happened, I would have accepted it as a part of the price you have to pay in this business. You shouldn’t have to let yourself in for that kind of danger.” “That’s where you’re wrong. I chose these dangers, remember? It’s my life, and I’ll do what I want with it. You are neither my judge nor my keeper.” She knew that some of the old hostility that she’d felt for years toward her father’s decisions about the ranch was surfacing. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful to you. I know what a risk you were taking, and you shouldn’t have.”

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She smiled, letting him know that the hatchet was buried. He shook his head slowly, fingering the edge of his hat and looking at her from under the deep brim. “Consider it even. I wanted to tell you we’re going to meet tonight after chow—all the owners. So don’t go out riding night herd, or anything else like that. We need to decide what to do next. They’ll be waiting for us at the river, I’d bet my bottom dollar on it.” He knew, after the stampede, that whoever had planned the attack had known what he was doing. It had been too subtle, too neat to be an accident. He had racked his brains, trying to come up with a name to go with the slickness of the operation, but so far he had drawn a blank. “I’ll be there. What do you expect? Is there going to be anything we can do now to stop it? To tell you the truth, this whole drive is hard enough without anything else to worry about.” She rubbed her sore bottom and saw him smile slightly. “There, I knew you could do it. I haven’t seen you smile in ages, but I know you can.” She grinned back at him. She puzzled him. One minute, she was the tough, take-care-of-herself owner, and the next minute it was as though she was flirting with him like a schoolgirl. He allowed himself a wry smile. “You caught me at it. Sorry, won’t let it happen again. We legends have something to live up to, you know.” She was pleased to see that he could joke about it, even though he put it as gingerly as a mouse running around a sleeping cat. “I knew a gunfighter once, only it was before he became a gunfighter. Did you ever hear of Roth Jason?” She didn’t know why she brought it up now, except that she wanted

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him to know that she didn’t condemn him for his past. Macgruder thought a minute. Yes, he’d heard of Jason. They were a few years apart, and he and Virgil had already started the ranch when the stories started drifting over the state about a hot new gun who knew what he was doing. Macgruder had heard the rumors that the man was without any loyalties, and that he’d been involved in the range wars up north some time back. “How do you know Jason? He’s a big enough name that he’s done some work for just about every type of low-down deal that’s gone down from here to Texas. I hear that he’s good, too good.” She hadn’t meant to open up this part of her past to him, but now that she had started it, she wouldn’t quit. “He worked for my father when he was about eighteen. He wasn’t a gunfighter back then. But my father thought he was. He fired him. I never saw him after that.” She tried hard to sound casual. Macgruder was thinking out loud. “I wonder if Jason could have something to do with this. If he does, you can bet there’s some big money behind it all, and we’re wrong about it being the Mexicans. They do their own dirty work. They wouldn’t hire someone else, like Jason.” He should find Virgil, see if Virgil thought that Jason might be behind the well-planned stampede. Perhaps in the months that he’d wasted in Europe, Virgil had heard some rumors that he hadn’t thought to mention. Again he cursed the time he’d wasted away from his ranch. He saw that she was staring at him intently. “Do you really think there’s a chance Jason has something to do with all this? I can’t believe it. He

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was never so calculating, he always reacted to the situation, doing whatever came into his head at that second. I know how he thinks, or at least I did once.” It was Macgruder’s turn to stare at her. He couldn’t believe what she was saying. He saw her in his mind’s eye as she was dressed for dinner that one evening he’d spent at her house, her black taffeta dress very proper but distinctly Eastern and sophisticated. And now she was talking about knowing how a reputed gunfighter thought and acted. He wondered if he’d ever be able to figure her out. “Do you want to tell me how you know him so well?” He had never been able to be subtle with women. Most of them resented his bluntness, but he somehow knew that J. Morgan Wilson wasn’t one of those types. “I’ll tell you about it some day. But right now, I think I’d better get back to work. I don’t want anyone saying that I don’t do my share.” She saw that he was still puzzled. “I promise, someday I’ll tell you. Right now, it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that we both have work to do and not much time until dusk. I’ll be at the meeting, with Sam.” She mounted and pulled Ariel in with the reins. She didn’t look back as she rode out again into the bush.

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Chapter 19 HE WATCHED them walk up to the fire, one by one, and light their cheroots. He had never known a cattleman’s meeting to take place without the heavy scent of cheroots filling the air. They all looked worn and obviously discouraged that all of their earlier precautions hadn’t counted a tinker’s damn in keeping the gunhawks off their trail. He waited a few minutes for the talking to die down. “We all know why we need this meeting. After three days of straightening out the mess from the stampede, we all know we can’t afford another slipup in our defenses. We won’t make it to the railhead if we do.” He let it sink in. They had believed that they were safe until three nights ago. The sheer force of numbers, both cows and men, had made them feel free from any fear of the gun-thirsty jackals that dogged their trail. Sam spoke. Macgruder saw that Morgan sat to his right, her eyes riveted on her foreman. She looked even more tired than she had at noon. She hadn’t taken his advice to ride in the wagon with Maria. “We all know what you’re saying, Macgruder. The question is, how do we keep from playing the

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sitting duck again? Our outriders kept their eyes on the gunmen, they didn’t see them do anything until the herd actually scattered. Then, we know they did their damndest to keep them going six ways to Sunday. But we don’t know who actually set the herd off. Do you?” Macgruder had been puzzling over the question for three days now. He had found himself thinking of how he would have run the operation for someone who wanted to take the ranchers’ lands and herds, and he’d discovered that it wasn’t so hard to plan in the old ways. He knew what had been done. “We didn’t expect them to put one or two men, alone, away from the rest of them, on our backs. We’ve been watching for all of them at once, or for them to act like any army. But they got us because we hadn’t expected to have to fight one man at a time. We need to think of a new way to take care of ourselves.” Virgil ground out his cheroot with his heel. “John and I think we know what to do. But it’s going to be risky. We’ll need to look more vulnerable, to make it seem as though we have almost no men left, except to ride herd. All the men we have watching the gunhawks will have to be pulled back in. We’ll use them for the cattle, all except for one or two of our best. Then John and I will circle back behind the herd and pick up where our men left off. They’ll think they can operate more in the open. Then we get them.” The other ranchers listened intently, frowns on most of their faces. Macgruder wondered if they had doubts about him and Talbot, if they still didn’t trust them after all these years.

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“How will we know if you need help?” Vanderhorst, the Dutchman, was the most practical of the lot, Macgruder decided. “You won’t, until one of us can signal. I’m expecting them to make a move at the river. It’s a perfect time to stampede the herd again. The stock will be nervous already with the scent of water. If Virgil or I haven’t found the men who did it to us the last time, we’ll just have to mount up our guard again and hope they don’t pick us off one by one. But I’m willing to bet that they’re eager to get their job over with, and in the two days it’ll take us to make the river, they’ll be getting edgy. That should give us some time.” He heard some low murmurings. The men needed time to accept the idea of trusting everything they owned to the protection of two men they had never really liked. But Macgruder had said all he was going to say. He wasn’t going to plead his case, and he’d be damned if he’d outline the logic of his solution for them, as though they were schoolchildren. “I don’t see that we have any choice.” He was wondering how long it was going to take Morgan to speak up. He couldn’t imagine her keeping her opinions to herself. He wondered if she realized that, by aligning herself with the two ex-professionals, she might be setting herself even farther apart from the others. “We all know we can’t go through this again. I say we try it.” She looked to Sam for support. He nodded, adding his agreement. There was a slight pause, and then one or two more nods of assent came

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from the other owners. He knew then that they had won another round. He had never talked so much in his entire life, he mused, as when he got into saving all their hides. Sometimes he wondered if Mr. Kincaid had done him any favors in teaching him to help other people. It would have been a hell of a lot easier, in this instance, to save his own hide. But then, he’d never have met Morgan again if he’d done that. He had been so angry with her the night of the stampede, that he had found it hard to speak. He couldn’t understand why she had been so foolish as to risk her life when there were men trained to do the job. He knew her well enough by now to be certain that she wouldn’t run from a fight, but he wished she would realize how precious she had become to him. He felt like a bumbling schoolboy every time he was near her, and he gave her credit for being perceptive enough to understand that he was more than just fond of her. He had lain awake in his blanket, trying to catch a few hours of precious sleep before he rode out again, unable to drift off because of the still vivid feeling of her body molded to his. She was a woman, and he couldn’t let her see that the risks she took frightened him. He’d never felt fear before. He wanted to hide her, protect her from harm, and the feeling was with him day and night. No matter how often she proclaimed her independence, he wouldn’t let her kill herself with silly risks, now that he had just found her. Virgil had seen the worry gnawing at him and had tried to help. “Look,” he’d volunteered one night as they discussed their plans by the fire, “I’m keeping an eye on her, and I know that Sam is doing his

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best, too. She’s doing all right. She isn’t so helpless. She certainly isn’t going to fall apart like one of those society ladies I was afraid you’d bring home. Let her do her part. She’ll respect you for it.” Macgruder had stared Virgil into silence. How did Virgil know what it felt like to fear for her every time he saw Ariel stumble, or saw her kicked by a cantankerous cow? “Virg, I know you mean well,” he’d replied, “but you don’t know what you’re talking about. She’s just a woman.” Virgil had paused and then said softly, “And Matthew was just a boy when he was lynched. But he knew the risks, just like we did. He took his chance, with the rest of us. There was nothing you or I could do about that, either.” Macgruder noticed the others walking slowly toward their own wagons. He looked for Morgan, wishing for her to acknowledge his presence. She stood talking with some of the other owners, stretching the muscles of her back. He wanted to ask her more about Roth Jason, too, but figured that would have to come once he’d found a way to work out his own feeling. Virgil had doused the fire and headed off for their own chuck wagon. Macgruder found Sam standing by his shoulder, watching Morgan with him. Macgruder spoke first. “Take care of her, Sam. She means something to me.” Sam ran his work-worn hands through his long, graying hair. “Her father said the same thing to me, long ago. Trouble is, she won’t let anyone take care of her. If she asks, all you can do is give the best you’ve got. But you have to wait for her to ask.”

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Sam faced John. “I know she feels something for you. I told her I didn’t like the idea of us having anything to do with your plan, and she defended you to me. Seems she believes in you. But I’d better warn you that she believes most of all in herself. She had to, or she would have ended up being nothing but the ghost of someone who had died long ago. Her father would have given his soul, and almost did, to make her into her dead mother.” Macgruder took a chance. The others had moved out of hearing range, and he saw that Morgan had already gone back to her wagon. He could see her untying the handkerchief from her hair and shaking the auburn waves loose with her fingers. The strangely feminine gesture unnerved him. “Tell me about Roth Jason. She said she’d tell me, but I’m not sure it can wait for her own sweet time. I have a feeling that Roth Jason may be involved in all of this. If this bunch of slime is anywhere near as well organized as I’m afraid they are, Jason may be the man behind it. I didn’t think of it until she mentioned his name. But the pattern would fit, at least from what I’ve heard about his way of doing things.” He could feel Sam tense beside him, although the dark made it hard to read his expression. “If it is, we’re in real trouble. He always meant to kill Mr. Wilson for what he did, I’m sure of it. He may think Mr. Wilson is still alive and be planning to get him now for what happened years ago.” Macgruder pressed him. “What happened, Sam?” Sam shook his head. “You’ll have to find out from Morgan. I promised her and her father I’d never

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again speak of it. I can’t break that promise now. But I’ll tell you this much; she knows how Jason thinks, better than anyone else alive today. I never saw a man who was so much a loner, and from what I hear, still is.” “I appreciate your honesty.” Macgruder shook his head slowly. “But I’m not sure I can wait for her to decide to tell me about it. I may have to know before then, if it’ll help keep us all alive.” He watched Sam head for the wagon and saw Morgan and Maria taking turns brushing each other’s hair. He didn’t understand how Morgan could be concerned with such foolishness. With one breath she was about to rip him to shreds for treating her like a woman, and with the next, she was seeing into his heart with her jade green eyes and being as womanly as Eve herself. He rolled his blanket next to Virgil’s, his gun held lightly in his trigger hand. They had slept this way so often on the trails that he no longer even thought of it as strange. The only difference between now and all those other nights on the trail was that now he had a hard time sleeping because of all the thinking that kept getting in the way. He heard Virgil snoring lightly for a long while before he finally nodded off.

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Chapter 20 VIRGIL AND John rode out before dawn, knowing that they had to pull around the outriders completely before full light. They didn’t want there to be any traces of their leaving, and the movement of the herd would be enough to hide their hoofprints. Virgil rode east, and he went to the west. They would rendezvous at night at the appointed place and decide from their observations what the next step should be. Macgruder was almost sure of what they’d find, but he was still hopeful that they’d be wrong. Macgruder could see the dust of the large band of men in the distance. They had gotten an early move, too. He wondered if they were getting ready for anything extra that day, then decided that if he didn’t concentrate on finding out how many men, and where they were, there would be nothing he could do to stop them anyway. He rode out farther to the west and waited. A small stand of trees provided enough of a hiding place. It didn’t take them long to catch up to him. He’d seen their type before. Most of them were young, too young to be living by the gun. They all had the same lean and hungry faces that he had seen so often in his youth, not only on Matthew and Virgil but in his own mirror. Their eyes were focused inward. Their hands were light on the reins, ready at any moment to spring into action and let the lead fly. And when that moment came, he knew too well, life would flare into the eyes.

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Their dust-colored jackets and the silent, slow trot of their horses blended them into the landscape. Macgruder shaded his eyes and rose slightly from his hiding place. He wasn’t sure he’d recognize Jason, but he knew that the gunfighter would be the oldest and most lethal-looking of the bunch. He counted as they rode by and found that even he was surprised by the sheer force of their numbers. He watched the faces and found none with the telltale marks of a man who had lived too long with death looking over his shoulder. He pulled his watch from his pocket and found that it was already noon. He and Virgil had planned to rendezvous at earliest dusk and make their plans from there. He still had a lot of ground to cover, to find out if and where the other men were operating from. The crowd he’d just seen didn’t look too used or worn. It had confirmed his earlier suspicion that a smaller group was doing the actual work, and this band was meant as a backdrop, a decoy, a cleanup crew for the big stuff. He sometimes wondered if, without all those lost years he and Virgil had spent selling their guns, they would have survived this long. He couldn’t remember a single face of the group of gunhawks he’d just seen, but he was sure that none of them would live to see thirty. Almost apologetically, he thought of Mr. Kincaid, and of what he would have said in reply, that a gun was never the answer to any problem. He was riding slowly, keeping his head down, but using his sixth sense at the same time. Then he saw it. The trail of two separate riders was clear and unmistakable. They had come alone, before the band that had passed him. From the hoofmarks, they were moving at a slightly faster pace.

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He decided to ride out to find Virgil. They needed to talk before nightfall. The swift pace of the two lone riders had him worried. With the river so near, they may have already set up their plan by the time he and Virgil could catch up with them. Virgil was waiting for him. He, too, had seen the hundreds of gunhawks. He rose from his halfcrouch as John approached, waving slowly with his big hand. John pulled a cheroot for the both of them. “I’d say it’s two men alone who are doing all the damage. They’re riding totally apart from the rest of them. I’d bet my bottom dollar the big bunch has no idea what’s going to happen next, and that they’ve been told just to look ugly and mean from a distance. That doesn’t mean they won’t get their marching orders farther down the line, but right now I’d bet my Winchester they’re all gun-happy from being so quiet for so long.” Virgil nodded in assent. “That’s the way I read it too. Now, what the hell are the two loners up to? That’s our problem. If they stampede the herd again, the steers’ll just hit the river at a run. We might lose a few more head, but not enough to hurt us. The river will take all the fight out of them, and we won’t have too much trouble pulling them together on the other side. So they must mean to go after our men this time around.” John pulled long on his cheroot. “That’s what it’s got to be. They’ve shown us they can control the herd when they want to, now they need to show us they can control our men. Bastards!” Virgil grinned. “I do declare, you’ve become a regular cursing man since you took in all that culture.

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Looks to me it didn’t do you too much good to go prancing over that ocean. All it did was make you meaner.” John found himself smiling in return. Virgil was always able to keep an element of sanity in the worst moment. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he had really laughed. He wanted this all to be over with, so he could find something else to laugh about. With Morgan. “I’d say you hit the nail on the head, Virg. What do you say we start back now for camp and hope to stumble across Jason and his buddy in the dark?” Virgil’s face lost its expression of good humor immediately. “You’re sure it’s Jason, are you?” “Has to be. He’s the only man I’ve heard of in these parts who operates like this. He’s a loner—and meaner than a rabid prairie dog. Sam tells me he wanted to kill Morgan’s father, because of something that happened years back. If he hasn’t heard that Wilson is dead, it would be an extra bonus for him to take on this job.” Virgil tightened the cinch of his piebald and ground out the cheroot with his heel as he mounted. “Then I’d suggest we get cracking, old friend. We’re already a day late and a dollar short. I never did figure the Mexican types to hire a man like Jason.” Macgruder mounted quickly and settled his hat firmly on his head. “That’s why we’re so far behind, my friend. The Mexicans have nothing to do with this. We’re up against one of our own.”

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They rode in silence, each searching for more clues to tell them how to stop the one man who could stop them all.

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Chapter 21 THEY HAD pushed hard all that day, trying to make up for the lost time and get the herd to water before they became crazed for it. Morgan had ridden drag, not because she wanted to, but because she felt safer back in the choking dust that hid her from view. She wasn’t proud to admit it, but she was afraid, and it had nothing to do with the herd. Ever since Macgruder had asked her about Jason, she had known. She had stayed awake half the night, remembering. Once more she had seen his sharp young face, his hungry eyes, his hard hands, and known that if he was out there, he’d find her. As she had lain awake, listening to the still restless sounds of the herd, she had come to the realization that Roth was after her, or her father, or both. She doubted that Roth could have known of her father’s death. She knew that the power of his love for her could have turned inward, into the most vicious hatred of her and her supposed betrayal of him. And she’d grown afraid, afraid that she wouldn’t be able to tell him that he’d been wrong, and that she really had loved him that horrid night so long ago. She had watched Macgruder and Talbot ride out on their mission that morning, knowing that whatever they found out would be too late. Roth’s mind moved, she felt, centuries ahead of the rest of the human race, and he would already be implementing his next plan just when they had started to figure out

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what the last one had been. On Ariel, she herded the stragglers with a wave of her hat, hoping that Macgruder and Talbot would be back early enough for her to warn them. She knew she would have to explain Jason to Macgruder, and that she didn’t want to see the emotions the knowledge would cause. But if John Marcus Macgruder’s eyes held some of the wildness that had stamped Jason so indelibly in her consciousness, in him it was tempered, controlled. She didn’t know if it was simply the years Macgruder had over Jason, or the fact that civilization had finally claimed the soul of at least one gunfighter. She was afraid to see Jason’s eyes again, afraid that they would hold the same ferocity that had once set her heart beating so loudly that she could hear it, and had made her mouth so hungry for his. She feared, even more than her own reaction, how Macgruder would respond to that element that set apart all who lived by another set of rules. She feared seeing the wildness come over John Marcus Macgruder.

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Chapter 22 BY MIDDAY, Macgruder and Talbot still hadn’t caught up with the herd. The other owners were worried. Sam could tell, as they shouted unnecessary orders at the cowboys, that the strain was beginning to tell on them all. It was one thing to face your enemy in the bright light of day, and another to wonder what shadow he would use to cover the gun that would send a bullet to your back. But the river was only a few miles away. Already the grass for grazing looked greener, and there was a tinge of wet in the air that he hadn’t felt in a long time. The herd had felt it too, picking up the pace bit by bit, until they were at a faster walk than they’d been since the first day on the trail. Sam looked around and found that Maria had already moved the chuck wagon up to the front with the others, preparing to wade it across before the hooves of the steers churned the banks into a trap for wooden wheels. He rode the perimeter of the herd, expecting to see Morgan at her post by their side of the mass of animals, but he hadn’t found her there. He became more annoyed; he didn’t see her anywhere she should have been. He wanted her in the wagon with Maria for the crossing, and he wasn’t about to let her decide to do otherwise. If he hadn’t persisted in finding her, he wouldn’t have been able to do anything to help at all. Just as he decided to check the drag riders for Ariel’s huge gray form, he saw the flicks of flame spring to life

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behind him. The other drag riders were all facing forward with the herd. He waved his hat, screamed for them to be warned. But as soon as he raised himself in the stirrups, the acrid smell of burning range grass hit them all. There was a look of panic on the faces of the cowhands as they whirled in their saddles to find the source of the smell. As Sam watched, the flames spread in an even circle around the tail of the herd, each new sweep of black and gold climbing higher into the air than the next. “Morgan!” he yelled as he spotted Ariel and saw the horse freeze with the knowledge that there was fire. She turned to look at him, and it seemed to him that she shrugged. Then she was pushing Ariel at a gallop toward the herd, driving the cattle away from the dancing flames that could hypnotize them into inaction and eventually engulf them in their frozen panic. He and the other cowhands followed her, all of them aware that the danger was inaction. The herd, catching the acrid smell for the first full moment, began to halt. The air was filled with the dry, laughing sound of the flames and the cowboys crying desperately at the steers to keep moving. As Sam and Morgan drove their horses into the herd, flailing at them to keep going, Macgruder and Talbot arrived at the outside edges of the fire. Macgruder knew in one instant what Jason had done. He had ringed them all in with a circle of

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death. He was going to kill them all as they tried to save the herd from incineration. He drove his horse around the edge of the carefully placed line of flames and smelled kerosene mingled with the odor of singed grass and hot flesh. Jason knew that sooner or later the momentary halt of the herd would crescendo into a panic of flying hooves sharper than razors, as they climbed over each other to escape. Macgruder pulled off his jacket and jumped down from his horse. He began beating at the fire with his coat, trying to stomp down the dry grass that had already ignited. He saw that Virgil was following his lead, as were a few of the cowhands who had seen him. The thickness of the black smoke burned at his lungs as he fought to hold Mancha’s reins with one hand and keep attacking the flames with his jacket. He knew that if they could open up a path, they could drive the herd out into the safety of the river and the protection that the movement would bring them. Because here each and every one of them were sitting ducks. He stopped struggling for one moment to see if Morgan was still on her horse. Just as he caught a glimpse of her auburn hair, he saw a man go down beside her. At first he thought the cowboy had been thrown from a panicked horse, then he realized that the twist of the man’s body meant something else. He’d seen it so often before, the sudden stunned look of incredulity, the subsequent stain of crimson. In the same instant Morgan had seen the man shot. Macgruder threw himself into the saddle, racing for her as he saw her begin to dismount to try to get to the wounded cowhand.

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“Morgan!” he screamed, through the din of steers and men. She glanced around her, as though she were dazed and unable to comprehend that someone was calling her name. But at least she remained in the saddle. He caught her by the shoulder as she turned to stare at him. She leaned over to shout into his ear. “What do we do now? They’re picking us off.” He was amazed at how calm she sounded. “Try to drive the herd to your left. We’ll break them through where we’ve got the fire beaten down. Head them toward the river. Just stay with them, don’t try to slow them down. The faster we’re all moving, the better our chances of staying alive.” Her face was streaked with soot, but still he saw that her eyes were afraid. He had to stop himself from grabbing Ariel’s reins and pulling her to safety. But no place was safe right now. She nodded once. “I’ll tell Sam,” she shouted back. Macgruder saw that the foreman was five paces away, heading for them both. He knew that she’d be all right. He had to believe that or he wouldn’t have been able to race back toward the fire line. They managed to drive down the flames sufficiently for the first steer to be forced through the break in the fiery circle. Macgruder fought all his instincts as the creatures began to race past him, and he stayed on the ground, throwing the blue jacket again and again at each small lick of death that sprang to life where he’d thought he’d killed it once. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he beat at the fire, lifting his head for a second to see how many steers were following the lead of that first one. In terror, the cows were

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unsure which death they preferred, and they fought each other and the cowboys who rode down on them. Then he realized that the stream had become steady. Picking up momentum, the hooves flew past him more quickly now. He glanced around at the other cowhands and gave them the signal to mount up. They leaped into their saddles, where they would be safe from death by stomping. Then they, too, were driving the herd, whooping and hollering in an ancient unknown language to the frightened animals being pushed through the blackened earth by their voices. Macgruder joined the herd on the other side of the flames, trying to keep the beasts in some semblance of order, funneling them toward the direction of the water that lay over the next rise. For a second, he let himself think of the number of men they must have lost already from the smoke and the bullets. He knew that they’d lose even more as they rode the water with the steers, trying to keep horses and horns from knocking each other beneath the current. He prayed that the water was low this year and not moving too swiftly. Morgan rode the edge of the herd, her hands loose on the reins as she leaned low in the saddle, trying to make herself as small a target as possible. She had never known such indiscriminate destruction. Compared to this attempt to burn them all to death, a man killing a man, face to face, seemed to be civilized. The first of the herd to go through the flames had started to sense that there was water nearby. She could see them driving harder as they crested the rise and saw the first glint of sunlight on the water. She

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had had no idea the river was so wide. They all knew that this was the only possible crossing point, since the width broke down the swiftness of the current and gave them a long lead of shallow water before they hit the few feet that required swimming by both cows and horses. She prayed that the first animals to reach the edge of the water wouldn’t balk and go under the hooves of the ones running too swiftly behind them. Already she could see that the wagons had crossed safely. She glanced at the edge of the herd she was riding and decided to push them into the water, then ride back to help with the rest coming behind them. They were short-handed as it was at this stage, and she had no idea how many men had been hurt back at the fire, or how many had been shot. She thought of Roth Jason and what she would say to him if ever she saw him again. If words could kill, he would be dead. She stopped counting as she worked each new batch into the water, relying on Ariel’s instincts and training to keep them both from getting knocked into the water. Then, just when she was beginning to think she couldn’t do it any more, she heard the shots again. At first the high-pitched whistle meant nothing, then she saw the rider ahead of her go down without a reason. Turning Ariel toward the shore once more, she rode for the ridge at a breakneck pace, hoping to warn the others who were still driving the herd. Suddenly, she saw Macgruder pushing beside her. “Where’re you going?” he yelled at her. She pointed toward the ridge line. “Shots. Someone’s picking us off down there too. Got to warn the others.”

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She pulled up as Macgruder reined in his gelding and stood in the stirrups to scan the hills surrounding them. “They can’t be shooting from this side. They’ve got to be waiting for us on the other side of the river. I’ve got to find them.” He pulled around and drove his horse at a dead run for the river bank. Morgan watched the horse hit the first of the deeper water, bob, then catch the feel of the current as he surged ahead. She didn’t know what made her follow suit, but before she knew it, Ariel was only paces behind him, swimming with a power she’d never felt before. She grabbed his mane with both hands and gave him his head completely. Her wet chaps slipped against the wet saddle like soap against soap, and she found that she could only stay on the big horse by hanging onto his strong neck and letting him pull her along. The muddy water was in her mouth and stinging her eyes when she saw the hit. Macgruder’s horse was down, flailing in the water with an urgency that meant he hadn’t simply panicked, he’d been shot. Macgruder struggled to keep the gelding’s head up, but soon she saw that they were both losing the battle to stay afloat and were drifting farther and farther in the current. She pulled Ariel’s reins. Ariel, startled by this sudden demand for his attention, fought off her instructions. He would not respond, and she turned again to see that Macgruder was floating free of his horse, flailing the water with the desperate strokes of a man who has never learned to swim. It had never occurred to her that he couldn’t swim. She saw his head go down again. He would

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already have swallowed enough river water to start a burning in his lungs. She knew what she had to do. Pushing off the edge of the saddle, she half dove, half threw herself into the downstream current. She let the water carry her as she kicked off her boots under the water, then started a steady stroke toward Macgruder. At the same time, she let the current pull her along toward Macgruder as he drifted. He’d seen her coming. He raised his hand as though to wave her away. In another second, she had the collar of his shirt in her hand. “Keep your head up,” she shouted into his ear. He nodded slightly, and she moved her grip to his chin, and cradled his head, swimming side stroke. The effort was making her legs tremble, but she somehow found the strength to kick the two of them into the first of the shallows. Sputtering, Macgruder found his footing as soon as she did. With her arm locked around his waist, she tried to help him out of the shallows onto the bank. She almost fell as he pushed her to the side. “Get to the wagons! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She could barely hear the words through his choking for air. Still, he pulled himself up from the water and stood staring at the ridge line. “Where’s your horse?’ he yelled at her. “I need him!” Knowing he was half-drowned and weak from his efforts in the river, she couldn’t believe he intended to take her horse and keep on going. “I just saved your life, you idiot, in case you didn’t notice.” Exhaustion made her lose control. He pulled at her arm, trying to hurry her out of the water. “I don’t have time for this right now.

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Now move it!” She half ran and almost fell in the water as she tried to find her footing on the shore. Ariel was nowhere to be seen. She was so angry at his ingratitude, she knew she was going to cry, and she didn’t want him to see the tears. She ran for Maria’s wagon, feeling the mud and the river blinding her eyes. At least, she hoped Maria would think it was the mud and the river. She was so furious, she didn’t think she could speak a civil word to anyone, should they ask her why she was crying. Macgruder clawed his way up the bank behind her. He hadn’t meant to be so rough with her, but dammit, she’d risked her life, and he wasn’t about to let her do that for anyone. He called out to one of his men to come and pick him up. The cowhand swung off his horse. “Jesus, Boss, what the hell happened to you? Last any of us saw you, you were with the herd.” Macgruder didn’t waste any time with explanation. “There’s someone on this side hitting us from ambush. Is your rifle loaded?” The man nodded. “Good, get down.” Macgruder hauled himself into the saddle, pulling the Winchester from its saddle holster. “Send Talbot after me as soon as you find him.” The cowhand stood in the dirt. It took him only seconds to realize he was now a sitting duck for a sniper. He started running for the safety of the wagons.

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Macgruder ran the horse for the only stand of trees he had spotted. The bushwhacker had to be close enough to pick targets, but far enough away to be unspotted. Macgruder knew his anger was making him careless, but there wasn’t a minute to waste. He swerved the cow pony from one lead to another, as though chasing a dodging cow, trying to make himself a difficult target. He threw himself from the pony about twenty yards from the stand of trees and ran in a crooked line to the first trunk he could use for shelter. He crouched, waiting for the twang of a bullet into the silver birch next to him. He concentrated solely on the sound he expected to hear, ready to open a barrage once he’d gauged the direction. There was no sound. It was as though the lowing of the herd and the yelling of the cowhands had died down, and all he could hear was his own rasping breath. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he thought to himself. The man was supposed to be here, and he, Macgruder, was going to take his life and stop all this trouble. Slowly, he edged around the tree, openly offering himself as a target. His eyes caught the glint of brass in the trampled grass and leaves of the small stand. He knew instantly that he was too late. The gunman was gone. Macgruder knelt and picked up each of the discarded cartridge casings. They were still hot in his hand. He stood slowly and examined each one. They were handcast, made for a special rifle. Now he knew for sure who the man was who was masterminding their destruction. Only Roth Jason would be so

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meticulous. Talbot was riding into the stand, calling his name. It was the first sound he was conscious of since he’d primed himself to kill the gunhawk. Virgil’s gun was pulled, and he used the horse to provide him with a shield of sorts. “What have we got, John?” He was whispering as though he didn’t want to attract attention to their hiding place. Macgruder tossed him one of the casings. “We’re too late, Virgil. Take a look at these.” Virgil turned the casing slowly around the middle of his palm, his other hand still ready with the gun. He whistled low. “Looks like we know for sure, now.” Then he stared at the water still streaming off Macgruder’s clothing. “What the hell happened to you?” “Had my horse shot out from under me. Morgan decided to play hero and drag me out.” He was beginning to feel chagrined at his dismissal of her. But his fear had been for her. She still didn’t understand that he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, let her deliberately risk her life. Virgil shrugged. “Looks to me like she did us all a favor in saving your worthless hide. You know you can’t swim worth beans.” Macgruder put the casings in his pocket. “But I can take care of myself. I don’t need a woman to come to my rescue.” Virgil’s back was to him as he mounted up. John couldn’t see his friend’s face as Virgil replied.

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“Well, looks to me like the only thing that got wounded on you today was your pride. How about getting back to work? They won’t be back today, and we still got a hell of a lot to do to get this herd settled down so we can all get supper.” Macgruder put his foot in the stirrup and swung up. His entire body ached. He put Morgan out of his mind, her worried, dirt-caked face as she had swum up to him and grabbed his shirt still too vivid. He’d never be able to see the herd to rights if he kept thinking of the chance she’d taken.

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Chapter 23 ROTH JASON watched Macgruder from a safe distance, his bring-’em-close steady in his hands. His marksmanship had been deliberate. He could have killed Macgruder if he had wanted to. The Sharps was more accurate at a long range. He wanted the message to Macgruder to be loud and clear. Give up, you fools. Or I’ll kill you, one by one. There was no way they could fight him. He watched as Macgruder plastered himself to the side of the tree. “Tch, Tch,” he murmured to himself when he saw Macgruder take the chance of sticking his head around to check out the rest of the stand. The Macgruder he had heard of would never have been so foolish. Something had broken the man’s concentration, and that could be death to a gunfighter—even an ex-gunfighter. Jason knew what had happened to Macgruder. His own concentration had been broken when he’d seen her swim toward Macgruder and pull him from the current. He’d forgotten what a strong swimmer she had been. For a second he’d seen in his mind’s eye her wet, shining face as she’d emerged from a long-held underwater breath, her long hair streaking down her back, her strong arms reaching out for him. Her back had been so smooth and strong, as though she had been bred to be a swimmer. He’d both envied her her gracefulness in the ponds they’d swum in and had reveled in it. He had had to shake himself. Watching Morgan taking such a chance brought back all the old

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feelings, the old hurts that he had permitted to fester until to kill them he’d killed all emotions within himself. That had been the moment for him to pack it in for the day, load the Sharps in its holder, and watch what happened next from a safe distance. He’d seen the anger on Morgan’s face, the fury on Macgruder’s. He could tell from her heavy, fast stride, as though she meant to hurt the earth with each step, that she had been furious and upset. He wondered what Macgruder had said to her. He put down his glass after Macgruder and Talbot had left the stand of trees, both riding Talbot’s horse. He had to think now. The knowledge that Wilson was dead gave him some feeling of peace, the first he’d known in years. He hoped the old bastard had died a painful death. Morgan, however, as seen through the glass, had seemed the same. She rode with the same abandon, he was sure she still wore no corset. Her auburn hair gave him a heartache he almost treasured. He thought of her pushing free from the big gray as she had swum toward Macgruder. For the first time in years, Roth Jason laughed. So they had both found their freedom. Morgan had her land, obviously, and he had his profession, and neither would ever have to hate her father again. With the precision of a man who had learned never to be impetuous, he saw the scene the night she was to have left with him in a different light. She had meant to come with him when she’d told him to have her horse waiting, he’d been sure back then. And, after all these years, he was sure again. Her eyes could never lie, not to him.

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Suddenly, he felt old, even though he knew he was only thirty-two. In his hot-headedness, he’d wronged her, thought ill of her for no good reason. Maybe she’d tried to reach him and been stopped by her father, or someone else in the house. He knew that the foreman would have done anything Wilson ordered him to do, whether or not he’d wanted to. All at once, he knew what he had to do. He couldn’t see her hurt or killed without knowing the truth. His concentration was already blown to hell, but he’d still managed to create enough havoc to keep the ranchers awake twenty-four hours a day. That alone, plus their already jangled nerves, would set them up for his final plan. He had time to implement that one. He was in no hurry. Now he wanted to see Morgan. She was the one thing in his life that he’d wanted more than anything else and hadn’t been able to get. Now he would make her his.

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Chapter 24 THE OWNERS that night were in a fury. Macgruder could see it in their faces as they purposefully strode toward his campfire. Vanderhorst spoke first. “Macgruder, we need to talk with you. Things have gotten worse instead of better.” He nodded tiredly. They picked their places around the fire. This time no cheroots were being lit. “Coffee?” He offered the pot from the fire. They all shook their heads. Cary was the chosen spokesman. “We think we’ll send a man ahead to Bannock, to use the telegraph up there. We want to send a message to Mr. Pinkerton and have him get his best men out here as quickly as possible. We’ll keep the camp set up for now. Shouldn’t take but a week for us to get some professional protection.” The others nodded their assent. Macgruder couldn’t believe it. They wanted to hire their own gunfighters. It would blow all to hell when the Pinkerton men got there, that much he was sure of. None of them would live to see the next morning once the lines had been drawn and the gauntlet tossed. Pinkerton’s men were just as bad as Roth Jason’s. In fact, plenty of Jason’s men probably had been on the same side as Pinkerton, at one time or

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another. “That’s just what they want,” he told them. “The longer they keep us from the railhead, the lower the prices are going to be when we get there. They know that. They just need to keep us here a week, twiddling our thumbs, and they’ve won without ever firing another shot.” Vanderhorst was next. “John, we need reinforcements. We’ve lost nearly thirty men, either dead or so injured that they’ll be no help. We can’t afford to risk any more lives. Already the other hands are talking among themselves about cutting out. I can’t see any way the few of us can keep this herd together. We might as well cut them all loose and go home.” Macgruder knew Vanderhorst had a good point. Too many bodies had drifted down the river. Morale among the hands was nonexistent. Vanderhorst continued. “The other thing is this. You know none of us was too keen at having a woman along for the drive. You know how superstitious the hands are. Like sailors, they believe females on a drive bring bad luck. We’ve had nothing but bad luck. We must understand their reluctance to carry on. The woman is a burden to the drive.” Macgruder stared at them one by one. Sam and Morgan weren’t in the group. Each met his gaze briefly, then dropped his eyes after letting him know that they all believed what Vanderhorst had just said. He felt compelled to stand, although his legs were really too tired to hold him. He just wanted some sleep and a new day to make a fresh start, with the herd, with Morgan.

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“That’s not true. You all know it. She has held her own and pulled more than her weight when she had to. She saved my life today, and I for one will not agree to tell her to go. She owns the Flying W, she’s an owner like the rest of us. The fact she’s here had nothing to do with the fire or the stampede. I’ve just found out that the man we’re fighting is Roth Jason, not any Mexicans. We’ve been thinking the wrong way, that’s the trouble.” He waited for the sudden murmurs of surprise to die down. “Jason is different. If we’d known then what we know now, we might have handled it all in a different manner from the start. But the point is, we go on from here. And I do mean we go on. Even if you decide to camp out here and wait for Pinkerton, I’ll start cutting out my steers and keep going.” It was his final weapon. He knew that they had come to depend on him, his large remuda requiring so many more men than they’d been able to hire on, his hands helping everyone else. It would take him three days, at a minimum, to clear out his brand, but he’d do it, by damn. The others were afraid to say anything to him. He saw Virgil riding in from checking on the herd and the hands one more time. He wanted Virgil’s support badly but knew that the damage had already been done. They would have to think this through themselves. “What’s the party?” Virgil drawled as he tied Paso to the back of the wagon. “You boys got a hankering for some of my good coffee?” None of them would meet Virgil’s eye, he noted with some satisfaction. Virgil strode over to the

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coffee pot. “Cary, you better send a few more boys out tonight. The critters are still a mite edgy, and you’ve got more good men left than the rest of us.” Cary nodded curtly and turned to walk angrily back to his encampment. The others remained seated and looked at each other. “All right.” Vanderhorst finally broke the silence. “We’ll talk it over some more. But you must pay more attention to the job at hand. If Miss Wilson is so self-sufficient, you have no need to worry for her. We don’t.” He barely kept himself from replying that it was obvious that they cared more for their own hides than for the one person among them who needed some protection. But maybe they didn’t see that. They only saw that she could rope and ride with the best of them. They had no idea of the battle she was fighting to prove herself to all of them, and to herself. Virgil saw that John was wearing what he called “the mask”. “I’m not sure I want to know what you’re thinking. It’s got to be serious.” The foreman sipped his coffee as he watched the retreating owners. “I was just thinking what a fool I’ve been. I should have been paying less attention to those jackasses and more to Morgan. They think I’m playing favorites. Hell, they won’t know what hit them when I pull the Flying W out of here along with our herd.” Virgil poured the remains of his cup over the campfire. He listened thoughtfully to Macgruder’s

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account of the meeting and nodded. “You meant what you told them, I reckon. I wasn’t sure if it was a good bluff or not. Guess it’s been a long time since I’ve see you play bluff. We gotta play more poker. I’m losing my sharpness.” Macgruder smiled at his old friend. “I’m the one who’s losing the fine edge, Virgil. I can’t see the forest for the trees these days. I should have realized that Morgan isn’t trying to prove anything to anyone but herself. How I could be so blind, I’ll never know. I thought she was trying to prove to me that she was so damned independent that she didn’t need me. Lord, do I have some apologizing to do.” Virgil watched his long-time friend, the man who was almost his brother. “I guess you do. I don’t believe she’ll give you the time of day after the way you treated her today. Good luck, pal.” Macgruder looked longingly at his bedroll. “I guess it’d better wait for the morning. She’ll probably shoot me on the spot if I wake her up with my confession. Besides, I don’t think I can talk a straight sentence at this point. Old age is really beginning to get to me; I can feel it in my aching bones.” Virgil laughed. “The day you grow old, horses will fly. You’re as hot-blooded over that bit of a girl as any young buck. So get a good night’s sleep and we’ll hear what everyone has to say tomorrow.” They spread out their bedrolls side by side, as they’d done for years and years. John wondered what changes Morgan would make in his life, once she was his, as he drifted off into the deep, black sleep of exhaustion.

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Chapter 25 TIMBERLAKE decided to wait in Bannock for the next rider with a report from Jason. He wanted to be there to see the kill, and he knew, from the way Jason had worked in the past, that it wasn’t too long in coming. He was reading the San Francisco Herald, his own private copy that he had shipped to him wherever he went, in the parlor of the small, musty hotel. He hated these dreary little way places, but there was just no avoiding them, at least until he’d established his own railway network across his new empire and could travel in his own finely appointed coach. Those good moments weren’t too far in the future, he thought, as he checked the stock sales reports. Garnett strode into the middle of the parlor, looking for Timberlake. Jason had told him what to expect, but Garnett was still trying not to snicker at the small, thin, balding man, puffing pompously on a cigar as he read his newspaper. He reminded Garnett of the one man his mother had married, in an attempt to “give him a father.” The son of a bitch had beaten Garnett every day, until he’d run away. His hatred of the man had provided every tin can he’d shot at with the image of the same sniveling face and balding head, and it had sharpened his accuracy until he was now very good. Timberlake noticed the frozen expression of the man in the dirty clothes who stood next to him. He

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knew instantly that this was the next bearer of good tidings. “Well, my man, I’d offer you a seat, but I don’t think you’ll help the upholstery any.” Garnett pulled up a faded velvet armchair and sat. “Jason sent me.” “I know,” Timberlake replied. How he hated such trivialities. “When do we take them?” Garnett forced his mind to focus on the task at hand, and not on this sudden reminder of his childhood. “Soon. We got a lot of them at the river. Jason had us ring them with fire, and then some of the boys and me, we started picking them off. When they finally figured a way out of that, Jason was waiting for them on the other side of the river and got a bunch more. They never had a chance. Not too many men left, and Jason says that the ones who are will be riding out soon. You can’t pay cowhands enough to take those kinds of chances.” Timberlake smiled. He knew he paid his men enough to make them take any chances he asked them to. “Give me a date. I want to make sure my offer is timely. After all, I don’t want them to suspect I’m involved.” Garnett did not like this man. But he respected his money, and Timberlake knew it. “Another five days, tops. Jason will tell you when, exactly. He still needs to get a few more key men out of the picture, and then we’ll have them all where we want them. With their necks in a noose.” He laughed slowly. He didn’t want Timberlake to think that he was just another one of the hired guns.

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“Me and Jason, we’ll finish them off. Between the two of us, we can’t miss.” Timberlake had had enough. “Fine. I’ll be waiting here for word. Tell Jason that the sooner this is completed, the sooner he’ll get his money.” Garnett stood awkwardly as Timberlake rose. He started to say something to Timberlake, then stopped himself. Garnett knew that there was more than money involved in this. He’d seen it happen before. When a man was out for revenge there was a whole new twist on how things were done. Garnett had been that way himself, the one time he’d gone home to see his mother and ended up pistol-whipping his stepfather. He felt pleasure at the thought. Garnett watched the thin, impeccably dressed Timberlake mount the stairs toward his room. Personally, he’d rather work for Jason than for Timberlake, but he knew the time was soon coming when he’d have to learn the fine art of handling men like Timberlake. Then he’d be his own boss, contracting out his own men to people like Timberlake and taking their money by the fistful. He already knew how to charge. He just had to polish up his ability to let the owners like Timberlake think that he and men like him could be bought for money. As long as they thought that way, there’d be plenty of work, and he could still satisfy his gnawing hunger for destruction. It was the only way he could survive. Garnett headed for the hotel bar. A few ratty saloon girls started to sashay over to him in their drinkstained dresses, then thought better of it when they saw the expression on his face. Garnett didn’t like women any better than he liked men who reminded him of his stepfather.

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Chapter 26 HE’D CHECKED it out before the light was gone from the sky. He’d decided that there was no time to waste; he could do it now and find out the truth once and for all. He’d watched her standing in the shadows, upstream from where the herd had crossed, trying to wash the river mud from her hair. He remembered how she had insisted that her hair be clean in the old days. It had always smelled of lemons. Then she’d gone back to her wagon, and he’d seen her and the other girl taking turns brushing one another’s hair. It was such a simple ritual, but it reminded him of the evenings when he was a small child and had watched his mother brushing her own hair before the pale glow of the oil lantern. He watched them roll out their blankets after supper and saw that she was on the right, closest to the back wheels. It was as though he was reliving the happiest days of his life, watching her prepare for sleep. He remembered how she’d dozed against his shoulder, her head heavy on him, his arm around her waist, wishing the time would come when he could ask her father for her hand. He knew what she would have said to such a request, that she could give away her own hand, but he had thought then to try to do everything according to the way it was supposed to be, to be proper about it, because he wanted so much to have her.

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In the dark night, the cowhands on the outskirts of the herd took him for one of their own, a nightrider who had luckily traded shifts with someone else. They called out to him as he rode slowly by them. “Some luck, fella. Let me know how you pulled this one off.” He laughed in reply, not wanting them to hear his voice and realize they’d never heard it before in camp. It was easy to ride within paces of the wagons without awakening any of them. Hers was set farther away from the others. He could ride right on in, like any of the hands checking in after getting off night guard duty. He pulled his hat low and made sure the Colt was free in his hand. It would take only a few seconds to have her on the horse behind him and riding out of the camp. He kept his horse at a slow walk, his nerves at the sharpest they’d been in months. Killing had become almost routine, not warranting even a slightly faster heartbeat, but this was different. It was as though every sense he possessed was focused on the second her eyes would open, and she’d see his face. He dropped the reins as he dismounted behind the wagon. His horse knew the signal and didn’t even twitch his tail. He crouched beside her bedroll, careful to make sure that the other woman was breathing deeply, obviously asleep. Morgan’s hair was spread across her arm, making her look young and vulnerable. He bent to stroke her hair. He wanted to see her eyes open. She turned slightly, as though to shake his hand loose. When she opened those jade green eyes, the years fell away like leaves in the wind.

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They were alone together on one of those nights that was always too short, when they’d met by lantern light. She knew him, he was sure. Quickly, he placed his hand over her mouth and shook his head. Her eyes were wide open, but she didn’t struggle. Placing a hand under her shoulder, he lifted her from the bedroll. It was all he could do to stop himself from trembling as he felt her weight against him and heard her breathe out a large sigh as he removed his hand from her mouth. He pulled her to her feet, afraid to take his eyes from hers for fear she’d disappear before him. Morgan clutched her blanket to her chest as though finding protection in it woolen roughness. “Roth! Why are you here? What do you want?” she whispered fiercely. Her heart was pounding so fiercely she was having a hard time catching her breath. She was hoping it was all just a nightmare, that he wasn’t really holding her to him in the dead of the night. “I’ve come for you. I couldn’t believe it was you at first, and then I knew that you were free now, free as you always wanted to be.” She shook her head. “Oh, Roth, you don’t understand. I’m one of the owners you’re trying to stop. I heard what became of you. I know how you earn your living. It seems my father was right about you after all, all those years ago.” He saw out of the corner of his eyes that the other woman was becoming restless in her sleep. He couldn’t stand there talking to her, he had to get her away so that he could explain. “Come with me now, I’ll explain. It can be like it used to be.” There was a feeling in his tone of

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voice that hadn’t been there for over a decade. She stared at him, as though he were a mad dog in the town square. “No. I’ll go nowhere with you. Leave us alone.” Her voice had risen, and he knew he couldn’t take any more chances. He gestured with his gunhand. “Get on my horse now, or I’ll kill your friend over there.” He pointed toward Maria. For one second, she looked frightened. Then she bent over to pull on her boots. He mounted and pulled her up behind him. It was just the way they’d often ridden when they’d both been kids. He felt happiness for the first time in years as he spurred the horse. They left the camp at a gallop. No one would wake up soon enough to figure out what had happened, and it was too dark to follow his trail anyway. He would have plenty of time to get her back to his own camp. Morgan was praying. This was the man she’d once loved more than anyone else on earth, but he wasn’t the boy of nineteen who’d been so lost and alone. He was now the best hired killer in the country, and she was fearful of what he wanted of her. She clutched the sides of the heaving horse with her knees, afraid to fall off, afraid to cling too tightly to him, afraid for herself as she’d never been afraid before.

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Chapter 27 DAWN WAS just a pale gray streak on the edge of the herd when Macgruder awoke. He was always instantly awake, fully cognizant that it was a new day and of what he had to do. He rolled out of his blanket and limped over to the embers of their fire, his hips still stiff and sore from his struggles of the day before. He struck his tinder and worked on the small flames for a few seconds. Once he got the coffee pot rinsed out, he knew Virgil would wake up and take over. Virgil hated Macgruder’s coffee and refused to drink any of it. He rubbed his sun-raw face with water from the bucket on the side of the wagon and felt his heavy beard. He hadn’t shaved in days and probably looked like a wild mountain man. It wasn’t that he cared how he looked on general principle, it was just that the didn’t want to offend Morgan. Then he thought of her sunburned nose and the ridges of trail dirt under her fingernails, and he didn’t worry any more about the beard. If she was half the woman he thought she was, she’d accept his apology and understand what he’d been trying to tell her through all his angry statements of the past few weeks. He looked over toward her wagon and noticed that Maria was still in her roll, but that Morgan seemed to have gotten up early, like him. He didn’t see her around the wagon; he assumed she must have gone down to the water for a quick wash. He never before had known a woman who had gravitated

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toward water so eagerly. She was a regular fish, he laughed to himself. The knowledge that he would use today to set things straight between the two of them made him feel immensely happy. What the hell, he thought. I could use a wash myself. He found a fairly clean cloth and a bar of soap and headed in the direction of the river. He stopped by her wagon, to make sure she hadn’t just hidden herself inside. Maria didn’t even budge when he called out her name, as softly as he could. “Morgan, you here? It’s John.” He waited a second, then noticed that there’d been a horse ridden right up to the rear of the wagon. He checked the prints. It wasn’t one of their ponies, he could tell from the relatively unworn shape of the shoe in the dirt. This wasn’t a horse that had been riding herd for several weeks now. He bent lower, and in the half-light of the morning, saw that there were two sets of footprints, one a man’s, the other, smaller. He looked around the wagon and didn’t see any prints of Morgan’s boots leading to the river. Then he saw the blanket. It was dropped in a crumpled heap at the rear of the wagon, close to the horse’s prints. He knelt and picked it up. He’d seen it often, draped over her shoulders, as he’d looked over in the early evening to watch her sipping her cup of coffee, talking with Sam or Maria, her face intent upon her conversation, totally unaware that he was watching. He had loved the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled at her friends, the way she pulled her mouth in a hard, straight line as, in the evening, she stared out into the growing darkness, as though she alone could see what the next day would bring them.

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She would never have dropped the blanket into a careless pile in the dirt. He leaned over Maria to touch her shoulder. “Maria wake up. It’s me, Macgruder. Where’s Morgan?” Sam’s daughter looked sleepily at him. “I don’t know. She’s probably on the range already. Have you asked my father?” Macgruder looked over toward the remuda. Ariel was still there, as was Sam’s big bay with the white blaze. “Maria, try and remember if you heard anything. She’s not on the range. Would she have ridden anyone else’s horse? Is Ariel lame?” Maria sat up and stared over toward the remuda. “Never. Ariel’s fine. I’ll get my father.” Macgruder stared again at the prints beside the place where he’d seen the blanket. Someone had ridden right up to the wagon in the night and left with Morgan on the same horse. Sam was beside him now, staring down also. “Maria says something’s wrong. Where is she?” Macgruder pointed to the tracks. “I’d say she left with whoever was on this horse. Do you have any idea who it could be?” Sam knew what the ex-gunfighter was afraid of. “You and I know this isn’t one of our horses. It must be Jason, or one of his hired guns. If it’s Jason, he’s come back for her.” Macgruder had to force himself to keep his hands at his sides. It had been one of his biggest errors in a whole list of them, he thought to himself, his not pressing Sam for the details of whatever had been between Morgan and Jason in the past. Now he would have to kill the gunfighter and that would get in

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the way of his bringing the herd through safely. “Tell me now, dammit, everything. And don’t forget any details about Jason. If she’s hurt, I’ll hold you responsible.” Sam knew the man was talking about Jason and Morgan, and that his belligerence came more from hurt and anger and fear than from any desire to harm him, Sam. But he, too, realized that the time for secrets was past, that Macgruder had to know what lay behind the gunfighter’s desire for revenge on the Wilsons. He, too, feared Jason and what he might do to Morgan. Macgruder’s eyes bored into his with a look that Sam hadn’t seen in a long time—not since the night he’d watched young Roth Jason whip and beat Mr. Wilson to the ground in the barn, until Morgan stopped them both with her tears. “Let’s ride,” was all Macgruder could bring himself to say as he ran for the remuda.

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Chapter 28 GARNETT thought a lot about Timberlake, and men like him, as he headed back for the rendezvous point. He had learned much from Jason in these months they’d been together, more, in fact, than he’d ever hoped to learn so quickly. He knew that Jason had more planned for the ranchers they’d been stalking. But now he was beginning to wonder if his own ideas weren’t just a little bit better. Garnett thought about the fancy clothes, the cigar, the aura of wealth that clung to Timberlake, and he knew that he wanted to be the one who took gold from men like the rancher. It would give him even greater pleasure than killing, he decided. Now he just had to decide how to handle Jason. It would be easy to pick him off when his back was turned and then take over the whole operation. But he hadn’t yet reached the stage where his pride would let him do that. Still, he imagined the surprise that would come over Jason’s face when he realized that he’d been hit, and that, too, gave Garnett a reason to smile. Men like Timberlake and Jason, men who thought they owned the world and anything in it they wanted, rubbed Garnett the wrong way. There was an omnipresent visceral urge to Garnett to knock them off their mountains and make them eat some of the dirt the rest of the world ate regularly. He didn’t know yet what had pushed Jason into being the best gunhawk around, but he knew that the fact that it was Jason, not he, who held that reputation that had

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been eating at him for weeks now. The camp was hidden in a small valley in the foothills, where they couldn’t be seen by any longriders from the herd, at least not for the next few days. Garnett rode in carefully, nonetheless. His sixth sense warned him that something wasn’t right. The first thing he noticed was the second figure wrapped in his blanket, sitting by the fire. Jason was a few yards away, seemingly asleep. Garnett pulled in at the top of the rise and pulled his pistol. “Jason,” he called out. The hat came back, and Jason rolled to one side in the same move, his gun pulled. “It’s me, Garnett.’ Jason stood and nodded. “Get in here,” he said to Garnett. Jason returned the gun to its holster, annoyed with himself for being caught in a vulnerable position. What is wrong, you idiot, he said to himself. Then he knew, looking at Morgan’s back as she sat up to watch Garnett ride into the camp, that her presence made him relaxed as he hadn’t been in years. Garnett stared intently at the girl as he tied his horse next to Jason’s. “Who’s she?” He shrugged in Morgan’s direction. “None of your business. Did you get to Timberlake?” Garnett continued to stare at Morgan, taking in her loose auburn hair and the wide, unblinking eyes that met his without fear. “Yeah, I told him what you wanted me to. He smells blood and wants in on the kill. When do we

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finish them off? He wants the exact day and minute. Send someone else to play messenger next time, huh?” Jason hit him in the shoulder hard enough to turn him around. “Take your eyes off her, now. Listen, kid, you take orders from me and not the other way around. If I want to send you by donkey anywhere in this country, you do what I tell you. Are we straight?” Garnett slowly turned his gaze from Morgan to Jason’s angry face. He’d never seen the man with so much feeling. It startled him. Something had changed in the short time he’d been gone. He glanced at the girl again and realized that she wasn’t any young thing. She was older than he. He began to unsaddle his horse. “So what now, boss?” The sarcasm was thinly veiled. Jason was buckling on his chaps and bridling his gelding. “You stay here and make sure she’s safe. I mean safe, Garnett. Do you understand me? If anything happens to her, if she stubs a toe, I bury you.” Garnett tipped his hat in mock reverence. “Yessiree, boss. I’ll watch her like a hawk.” Jason stopped to look once more at Morgan, then abruptly touched his hat as the gelding swung out of the camp. Garnett sat down next to the woman. “Do you mind if I ask your name, ma’am?” “Yes, I do. It’s none of your business.” Morgan stared after Roth. She hated the oily tone of the other gunfighter’s voice. She knew that Jason was backtracking after Garnett to make sure he hadn’t been followed.

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She looked briefly at Garnett. His young, high-cheekboned face had aged already far too much. She saw in his deadly eyes the look that had come to Jason in the years since she’d last seen him, and she found herself fighting down the urge to run, anywhere, so long as it was away from that look. “Who are you? Do you ride with him for long?” Garnett laughed. “My, aren’t you nosy?” The tone of his voice became more brittle. “No, not for long.” Garnett had never been able to read women well. But he knew that there was something between Jason and the woman that hadn’t just sprung up in the past day or so. She was raggedly dressed. He was surprised to see she had no hat or bedroll of her own anywhere in sight. She looked to him to be half-dressed, in fact. He poured himself some coffee from the pot on the fire. “You make this?” he asked. She nodded, then continued to look in the direction Jason had taken. “It’s nice to have a woman around to do this kinda thing, you know what I mean?” He noticed that the blue blouse she wore was thin with use and tight over her bosom. He continued to stare. “No, I don’t know what you mean.” She pulled the blanket over her shoulders again and moved over to the outcropping Jason had used to prop himself against when he napped. Garnett watched for a while, then decided he had had enough of her uppity airs. Women like her, he thought, need a few slaps and they’ll tell you anything, including the color of their grandmother’s hair.

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He stood over her. Morgan pretended not to notice his presence and kept her eyes shut. He nudged her with his boot. “Woman, we do some talking now, in a real friendly way, or we’ll have to find another way to do it. Now, who the hell are you?” Morgan glared. “None of your business. You want to know so much, go ask Jason.” The force of the blow took her breath away. “You...you bastard!” she spat at him. She looked around for a rock, a stick, anything she could use to defend herself. Before she could lunge in the direction of a small stone, he had her arms pinned to her side with his knees, his hands free on her body as she tried to twist from under his weight. “Jason!” she screamed as his hands fumbled with her blouse. “You wanna talk, huh?” His breathing was fast and heavy. “Let’s hear why you’re here, huh, little lady?” She spat in his face. “He’ll kill you for this. I know him. You’re a dead man.” He had the straps of her chemise in his hands as she kicked futilely at him. “We’ll see about that. I never knew Jason to care much for women. Matter of fact, he don’t think much of them at all. I’ve seen him cut one who got in his way in a gunfight to shreds. You aren’t worth much to him as a woman, so you must mean something else to him.” Garnett stared at her smooth breasts. “You got nice tits, woman. Too bad Jason don’t want them— might mean you could live longer.” He bent to put his mouth on hers as she let out another scream.

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Garnett hadn’t held a woman in his arms in a very, very long time. This one was prettier than he had ever expected, once he peeled off the mannish clothes. He could hardly believe his luck. From all he knew of Jason, Jason didn’t want the woman for sex, because Garnett had never heard of him ever having a woman. That meant Jason had picked her up for something else, some other reason. Garnett figured that meant he could use the woman for his own purposes, and if Jason didn’t like it, too bad. Their showdown was coming up soon anyway, as soon as their little job was finished. His passion rose as she struggled and fought in his arms. He’d never liked the docile, tame kind, and this one sure wasn’t tame. He was trying to get her britches down when he heard her gasp. Suddenly, she stopped fighting, and he thought he’d finally gotten her all ready for his lovemaking. He began to smile widely. Then he saw that she was staring at something behind him. He heard the jangle of the curb in the horse’s mouth before he heard Jason. “Do you want to die right there, or standing up?” Jason’s hand was on his gun, but it was still in the holster. Garnett rolled off Morgan, awkwardly trying to get to his feet in one move. “Now, look here, Roth. I know you don’t go much for the ladies, and this one seemed friendly enough. I don’t see why you’re so all fired up about this. Let’s talk this over, what do you say?” Garnett’s eyes never left Jason’s gun hand. “Nothing to say, Garnett. Go for your gun. You’re dead.” Garnett backed away from Jason, as Morgan tried to pull the blanket over her nakedness. “You going

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to give me a fighting chance, or shoot me in the back?” He was trying to strap down his holster as he slowly backed away, his breathing still shallow, his voice too high-pitched. Garnett gestured at Morgan. “Shit, she’s nothing to you. I know you don’t want her yourself, so why the big act? You gonna try to do it with this one, you slime? I bet you can’t. That’s your problem. You ain’t ever done it with a woman, and you couldn’t this time, either.” “Shut up.” The voice was so angry that Garnett hardly recognized it as coming from Jason. “Go for it, you son of a bitch. I shouldn’t have let you live this long.” Garnett pulled his weapon before Jason had finished his sentence. There was a loud report, and Morgan watched in horror as Garnett slowly twisted into a small heap of old clothes. She had seen the lightening quick response of Roth’s gun before Garnett and had known that this gun had been drawn faster than any in Jason’s hand when he was a boy. Roth was beside her, trying to put his jacket about her shoulders. “Are you all right?” He searched her tear-streaked face with the intensity of a man who had found a dearly-loved lost child. She nodded and began to cry. “Dammit, Roth, why did you leave me with him?” She was also angry at herself for having been so afraid. It had been the first time in her life that she had felt bestial, overpowering human strength used against her, and she had felt totally helpless to stop it. “I made a mistake. I thought he was more afraid of me than he was. He must have been planning to make his move sooner than I thought. That kind does, sooner or later. I thought he meant to make it

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later, after he’d collected his final pay.” Morgan tried to wipe her eyes with the remains of her work shirt. “Roth, do you see? There’re hundreds of worthless bastards like Garnett out there, waiting for you. Some day, one of them will have your name carved on his gun. I could never have stood it. I refuse to remember you this way—I can’t. Don’t you see, I can only love your memory.” Jason withdrew his half attempt to caress her. “I know what you’re saying. I know it’s too late to change. But I’m still in love with you. Nothing can ever change that.” She looked at him through tear-stained eyes. “God help us both, then.”

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Chapter 29 MORGAN watched Jason through her tears. She became aware of the sun beating down on her face, and that her mouth was filled with a taste like dry stones. “Can I have some water, please?” Ignoring Garnett’s body, he went to take his canteen from his saddle. He waited for her to drink, took the canteen, and tipped it to take a small swallow. She watched his Adam’s apple move as he drank and realized with a start that his face and bearing were so dissimilar from those of the boy she’d known, that she was surprised she had recognized him without having heard his voice. “Where will you take me?” She knew he wouldn’t answer her, but at least she’d tried. All at once, she remembered the nights he’d been waiting for her, swinging her up behind him on his horse for a ride out to the nearest pond. She knew exactly the pressure on her arms that he’d use to steady her behind him, the exact timing of his push to move the horse out. She suppressed the image, knowing she’d need to concentrate. She had used her wits before, when, for the sake of the ranch, she’d roped James into doing exactly what she wanted. But I miscalculated badly with that one, she thought. She wasn’t going to make any mistakes with Jason. “Where do you keep your food?” Jason looked over his shoulder at her as he rubbed down the saddle-weary gelding. “In that sack to

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your right.” She didn’t see any expression at all on his face. She wasn’t sure yet of what her plan should be. She tried to ignore Garnett’s lifeless body while Jason was busy with the horse. She waited until she had some jerky in her and before she started over to him. He whirled to face her, their eyes locking. “I was just bringing you some food.” She hoped that she was showing no fear as she met his gaze. Then she realized that her courage was real. She wasn’t afraid of him or of what he could do to her. He took the jerky from her, his eyes averted. She knew that she would have to take the first chance. He would expect it of her. “Why do you want me? It was all over a long time ago, and you and I are no longer children.” Roth stared at the small fire in silence for what seemed like years to her. “Why didn’t you come with me that night?” She could feel the heat in his words like hot iron in the farrier’s fire. “Why did you leave without me?” “You didn’t come. I was so sure that you would be there, but you chose your father and his fancy way of life.” “If you believed that, you really didn’t know me. You should have tried to find me. I was locked in my room. I couldn’t get out to you.” He looked at her for the second time, as though he was trying to see through her words.

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“I don’t believe you.” He turned away from her again, his face set in its expressionless mask. He was hearing what he had half suspected, yet couldn’t quite believe, even now. Knowing he’d been wrong all those years was, despite his hope of having her love again, almost more pain than he could bear. “I don’t give a damn if you believe me or not. It’s the truth. But it really doesn’t matter, not now. Even if we had left together, I wouldn’t have stayed with you. I know now that you would have smothered me just the way my father did. So don’t you see, in the end it doesn’t matter. Let me go. I’m not the girl I was back then. I have a new life, the one I’ve always wanted. And you don’t belong in it.” The violence with which he suddenly tossed the rest of his coffee into the small fire made her recoil as though he’d been about to strike her. Dear God, she prayed, don’t let me show fear. She felt that fear would lead him to kill her quicker than any truth she had to tell him. “I loved you. You were mine. We would have been together forever.” It was the first time he’d been able to say those words to her, words that had festered and grown like gangrene within his soul for thirteen years. “You let me down; not the other way around. I swore I’d kill you and your father once I’d gotten rid of my love for you, and I’ve done a good job of trying. Every time I gunned down some stupid cowpoke or some fat rancher, I was killing your father and my love for you. It helped, believe me, it was the only help. But it still didn’t do the whole job.” He pulled her to him and shook her, as though she were a rag doll. “Can you understand that?” She didn’t answer. She knew it would be a mistake to continue to try and reason with him while his

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raw, bleeding emotions were being forced to the surface. She laid one palm against the rough, black stubble on his cheek. “I know what you felt. I felt the same hurt, the same anger that we couldn’t be what we wanted to be, together. I loved you too, remember? I loved you more than just a girl loves a boy, I loved you the way a woman loves. I took all the chances for you. Why could you think I’d stopped loving you in one night? You didn’t have enough faith in us together.” He looked into the eyes that he thought he’d never see again as long as he lived, and he felt the pressure of her hand stroking his face as she’d done in the past. He felt the moments passing as he memorized again every detail of her face, and added her present look to his memory. It would never leave him again. “I needed you too. I needed you more than I needed life. I still need you.” “I needed you, too, back then,” she replied. “But something changed, and I found I could survive, and even do well, without leaning on anyone. Did you know I taught school back East? I was a good teacher, and I earned my own way. But I still needed one thing, and one thing only, Roth. I found out that I needed my land more than anything else. I’m part of that ranch, and the land that makes it breathe and live, makes me breathe. I came back to keep it going, living, surviving. My father’s dead, I can do anything I want with my life now that I don’t have to prove anything to him. And in the process of learning that I wanted to run my land my way, I learned that I could live without you. I didn’t feel that

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way for a long, long time.” She stopped to catch her breath. She’d let the words tumble out so rapidly that she was panting. “I’m my own person, Roth. We can never again mean to each other what we did back then, because I must be free of you. You wouldn’t, couldn’t, ever accept me like that. That isn’t the woman you loved.” She saw his jaw tense as her words hit home. She knew they were reaching him. “I’d have given up everything for you.” He was still fighting for their past. “I know that. But it’s too late now. You can’t change who you are now, any more than I can. Let’s remember ourselves together as we once were, and go our separate ways, knowing it was better for us then than it could ever be again.” She watched the lines in his face become deeper and the darkness coming again into his eyes like thunderclouds before a storm. She felt herself aging with him, carried along by the ties of memories to the present. “But I loved you.” His voice dropped reluctantly, as though he were whispering the last of a private creed to a dying friend. “Yes, I know that. But it’s past, Roth. It’s a memory.” He looked at her with dawning understanding, like a man released from a demanding dream. She felt some of his strength come back to her, as though she was sharing his new view of her and of their

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past together. She waited. He had dropped her arms and sat looking toward the ridge in front of him. “Roth, we need to talk about this range war.” She felt safe now in bringing it up. And she saw he was willing to talk. “Timberlake hired me. I took the job because the money meant I could retire, at least for a while. Then, when I heard I’d get a chance to plug your old man, I was glad of the job for the revenge I would have.” The voice was that of the gunfighter, the man who knew exactly where he was going every second of the day, not the voice of the young man who had wanted her, just seconds ago. “Then I heard your father was dead.” “Give it up. Get out now. Macgruder will kill you. He’d do it just because of me, right now, but more than that, you’re destroying the most important thing in his life, his ranch and herd. Just the way you’re destroying mine.” Jason stood slowly and looked down at her. “I’ll think about it. But just remember, if I don’t do the job, someone else will go on the payroll. Men like Timberlake don’t stop until they get what they set out for.” He propped his saddle against an outcropping and unrolled his blanket. “You’d better get some sleep. You’ll be safe here.” He tossed her another bedroll. “Don’t wander off too far, you might get hurt.”

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She watched him pull his hat down over his eyes to cut the glare of the sun. She began to tremble as she unrolled the blanket. She still wasn’t sure she’d won. Suddenly, she ached for the feel of Macgruder’s arms around her, for the gruff sound of his voice scolding her for taking a chance. She felt her emotions raw within her. She never wanted to love again, she told herself, especially not a man who had once lived by the gun. She couldn’t afford the emotions. The man she’d once loved was trying to destroy her new life; the one she found herself falling in love with now would try to destroy it in another way, by keeping her from being herself. Still, she anxiously kept listening for the sound of horse’s hooves on the rocks as she dozed off. Macgruder, please find me. She hated to admit it, but she needed him, almost as much as she’d once needed Roth.

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Chapter 30 VIRGIL, Macgruder, and Sam traced in circles. The going was rough and stony, and they had a hard time finding a steady trail. Finally, Virgil spotted the place where Morgan had dismounted for water. He let out his loud whistle to bring the others to the spot. From there on, they rode the trail fairly steadily. Macgruder was all too aware of the lead Jason had on them, and his mind was whirling feverishly with the possibilities. Sam told him about the young cowhand Morgan had loved when she was still a child, and how she’d been sent to school back East and had stayed there for the next thirteen years. Macgruder tried to push it out of his mind once he’d heard it, but he couldn’t. He knew it was foolish to think that a woman, grown and with a life of her own, had never loved before. But he hadn’t wanted to know how deeply she’d loved, or the kind of man she’d chosen. It unnerved him to think that he and Jason had been cut from the same kind of cloth, and that only the concern of one good man had sent him on a different, better path. He understood now why Morgan had been so independent, so afraid to accept his help, his bumbling attempts to have her lean on him for strength and support. Her father had forged her out of stronger stuff than the old man would ever have believed, even if he hadn’t meant it to turn out that way. The three rode as hard as they could into the foothills, each of them silent now. Macgruder realized

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that he, too, had been shaken by Morgan’s story. Virgil, too, was moved; he had admired the Wilson woman more than he had let on. Macgruder wondered if he had ever unknowingly seen Jason in any of the towns he’d wandered through before settling down on the ranch. In his mind he saw a composite face of a hundred young drifters, all with fast and ready guns, all of them expressionless, dead, indistinguishable. Virgil spoke first. “What do we do when we find them? We don’t want her hurt in the crossfire.” The thought stopped Macgruder for only a second. The day was already heavy with the scent of death for him. “I’ll have to try to call him out. Sam, you get her out of the way, any way you can. She’ll be able to run, I hope.” Sam looked startled. His imagination had been troubling him, too. He was afraid to tell the others his fears for Morgan. He alone thought he understood how much a man like Jason could hate. And he was sure Jason hated Morgan for not leaving the ranch with him those long years ago. He had seen the tears on the youth’s face as he waited for her until the last possible moment. Only a man who has cared so deeply can hate so deeply, he thought to himself. He was sure now that there was an added ferocity in the attacks on the herd and the men because Jason had known all along that Morgan was riding with her ranch. He cursed himself for agreeing that she could ride in on the drive. He thought of her stubborn, determined expression when they had discussed it, and how she reminded him of her father as she sat at

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his old desk. Sam had secretly been pleased that she was so tough, so ready for that big oak chair. Now he wished he’d treated her more like his own daughter, had shamed her into staying home. But then, he knew that nothing he could have said would have stopped her once her mind had been made up. She and Jason had really been very much alike when they were younger. They had thought and acted like twins. He had overheard them talking, using an almost secret code, each seeming to know what the other was going to say before it was said. He wondered if that strange bond still existed. Because if it did, Morgan might still see whatever it was she had found to love in Jason long ago. What if she had gone with Jason of her own will? He looked quickly at Macgruder, afraid that the man might have been able to read his thoughts. He knew that Macgruder wanted her too. He decided he had better warn the ex-gunfighter of what he might find. “Macgruder, I’m just saying this because it might be a possibility, but...well, did you ever stop and think that Miss Morgan might have wanted to go off with Jason? You didn’t see them together before, like I did. She’s never loved anyone else, as far as I know. And I would be the one to know.” Macgruder’s eyes stayed focused on the distance. “I know what you’re trying to warn me of, Sam. Don’t worry. If it’s her choice, then she can live with it. But I don’t think it was her choice.” Macgruder remembered the warmth of her arms around him as she rode behind him during the stampede, saw the soft shine of her hair as she leaned to adjust a log in the fireplace of her father’s study. The woman who had sat across from him on that long, dirty, and boring train ride wasn’t a woman who would leave him for a

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gunfighter she had loved as a kid. She was a full-grown woman, and she had too much sense to do anything so stupid. He told himself this over and over and prayed that Sam was wrong. He smelled the smoke from the fire before he had any other inkling that they were nearing a camp. He reined in, Mancha’s hooves sliding on the rubble. The others followed his lead. They listened for another sound to send them in the right direction. Virgil was the first to point. He and Macgruder nodded. Virgil dismounted and pulled his Winchester from its sheath. Macgruder motioned for Sam to stay mounted. “You cover us,” he whispered to Sam. “Then move in fast if you think you need to.” Sam nodded, and readied his .45. Virgil and John dropped their reins, and each took one side of the low rise in front of them. They half ran, half slithered to the edge of the bluff. Macgruder was afraid of what he would see in front of him as he looked over the rocks into the makeshift camp below him. The first thing he saw was the blood—and a torn blue shirt. It was the same blue shirt Morgan had worn the day before. He was sure of it. He was unable to tear his eyes away from the spot, until Virgil touched his arm and pointed toward a figure in the distance. They watched the man bending over a pile of stones, stacking them one by one into a pyramid. Macgruder felt the anger and fear well up within him as he saw the points of boots, not yet covered, under the rock pile. He started to rise, already cocking the rifle, ready to begin firing as fast and furiously as he could. She was dead, and his only thought was for revenge. The need for it flared up like a raging

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barn fire. Suddenly, Virgil grabbed him and pinned him to the ground. “Stop it, you fool!” he hissed. “You aren’t thinking. There might be others.” He knew Virgil was right. It would do him no good to kill just one of them, if more had been involved in her death. Yet he almost hated Virgil for keeping him from his act of revenge. Then he saw her. He thought for a second that he was dreaming when she walked from behind another outcrop of rock, buttoning a shirt that was three sizes too big for her. He heard her clearly and knew then that it wasn’t a trick his mind was playing on him. “It fits, Roth.” She was tucking the shirt into the top of her pants. The gunfighter stood up facing Morgan, and Macgruder saw his face for the first time. He watched carefully. Whatever had passed between those two in the past few hours, Jason was still the professional. John kept his hand near his Colt. Morgan was closer now to Jason. Macgruder couldn’t hear what she said, but he could see the marks of tears in the dirt on her cheeks. She was worn to the bone, more tired than he had ever seen her, and at the same time, younger looking. It was as though she had been laid bare, and the showing of her soul had taken away the years. Macgruder felt his need for revenge displaced by jealousy, and the question he’d been avoiding arose insistently. What if she did still love Jason and had chosen him? What he heard next saved him. Her voice, quite clear, carried even to Sam, he was sure. “You must

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take me back, Roth. I won’t tell anyone what has happened. But you must see that this has to end now. If you ever loved me once, if you still do, then give it all up. Tell Timberlake that he’s through, that you’ll make sure he’s through.” Jason’s reply was too low for Macgruder to hear, but something snapped in him as he saw the man pick Morgan up and lift her bodily onto the back of one of the horses. Then Jason’s voice rose, and Macgruder heard him say, “I’ll stop it all now, on one condition. Promise me that you’ll never leave me. We’ll be together always. Promise me.” Roth Jason’s face was inches from hers. Macgruder could see that she was beginning to cry again. Macgruder was on his feet before Virgil could stop him, racing down the embankment into the camp. “Jason, leave her alone. If you want a fight, you’ve got it.” He crouched, his rifle at his shoulder, ready for a blaze of gunfire from the pistolero. Jason had turned, rolled, twisted out of a direct range of fire. Both of them held their weapons quiet, each aware that a stray bullet might hit Morgan. She was off the horse, running toward Virgil. “Virgil!” she screamed. “Stop them. There’s no need for this. I’m unharmed.” Virgil put out a protective arm to pull her to him. Macgruder was too angry to see Jason clearly. He had been right all along. Morgan hadn’t wanted to go with the gunfighter. Whatever had happened had been against her will. She had wanted to return to him, Macgruder, to the life they could share. He wanted Jason dead so badly that he could taste blood in

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his mouth, unaware that he had bitten through his lip in his concentration. Jason knew the man in front of him. “Macgruder, I should have killed you off sooner. It’s not too late.” He didn’t care anymore what the outcome of this gunfight would be. He was only sure of one thing, and that was that if he couldn’t have Morgan, he didn’t want life without her again. Slowly, Jason stood. “You want a fair fight, Macgruder, you’ve got it. That way, one of us will be dead, and the one who’s left can take her.” Macgruder stood also, his eyes never leaving Jason’s. “You’re forgetting one thing, Jason. The lady doesn’t want to go with you. If I lose, my friends will see to it that she goes back with them, anyway.” Jason called out to Morgan. “Morgan, is that the way you want it? Or will you play this last hand for all the chips? If I win, you go with me, and the herd gets through with no more trouble. I tell Timberlake he’s lost and get rid of the pistoleros dogging your trail. If Macgruder wins, you go with him—but that isn’t going to stop Timberlake.” “Don’t say anything, Morgan.” Macgruder spoke so softly, she could hardly hear him. “You don’t have to make any choices. I’ll kill him right here and now.” Morgan looked from one to the other, the man she had once loved, and the man, she realized, whom she loved now. “Jason,” she pleaded. “Don’t do this. Leave now, and we’ll forget it, all of it. Remember what I

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told you about living by the gun? I don’t want to see you die in front of me. And I don’t want to see you kill, either. It’ll only make me hate you. I beg of you, if I ever meant anything to you, drop it now. Ride out.” Jason turned away from her. “Decide, Morgan. We’re playing by my rules here now, not those of Philadelphia. Decide now.” She was no longer crying. Macgruder could hear her take one deep, racking breath. He could hardly believe her next words. “John, I love you. I can’t watch you die. I’m going with Roth. Make sure Sam gets my ranch. It’s in my will. I’ll never see you again.” She pulled free of Virgil and began walking toward Jason, providing the distraction Macgruder needed to make his move. Macgruder felt the pull of the gun as he drew as fast as he’d ever drawn in his life. He watched Jason, and saw too late that the gunfighter was the faster of the two. Too late, he thought as he felt the push of the bullet. But Morgan’s move had spoiled the gunfighter’s aim. He was hit, but he was alive. Morgan screamed, and Virgil raised the rifle to shoot, when he heard Macgruder call, “Enough! It’s finished now.” Morgan ran to him and cradled him in her arms. Virgil kept the gun aimed at Jason. “John, dear God in heaven, John, why did you do it? Can’t you see I’d do anything to keep you alive? Please don’t die. I need you to live, for me.” He heard her clearly in the part of his mind that told him he was still alive. He had to stay conscious. Jason pulled closer, his gun still in his hand. Morgan raised her face, calm and tearless. “Don’t kill

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him, Roth. I’m coming with you. Enough good men have died because of me. My father was right about you, but I’ll go with you if you’ll ride out of here right now and never look back at this man.” Macgruder could still see Jason’s face, even through the pain that half blinded him. The gunfighter stared at Morgan as though he would burn her with the intensity of his vision. Virgil stood like a stone, his rifle raised, Sam beside him on the other side of the slope. He was afraid to turn his head, afraid that Jason would take that moment to start firing at them all. Morgan gently laid Macgruder down and stood. “Come on, Roth, let’s get out of here.” She started toward the horses. “No.” Jason spun her around by the shoulder, his gun hand still holding the Colt. “You were right. We can’t go back again. I wish to God we could.” There was a heavy silence. Macgruder could barely see the man turn, mount up, and ride away from the camp. The last thing he was aware of before letting go and sinking into darkness was Morgan’s face above his, her voice, calm and loving, telling him he had something to live for. Virgil lifted Macgruder onto the saddle and held him there for Sam. Morgan watched, holding her arms to her as though she’d suddenly grown very cold. Virgil turned to her. “He’ll live. I’ve seen him shot worse than that. Are you all right?” He’d never seen so strong a woman in his life. She nodded. “It’s been a long day, is all. I was afraid I’d lost him forever.”

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“Who, John or Jason?” Virgil still couldn’t believe the gunfighter had given it up, had ridden out. Morgan tried to smile as she mounted the extra horse. “John, of course. I lost Jason a long time ago. There was no way to get him back. He’s been dead for years. For a few minutes today, he came alive again, and the pain was too great.” She knew deep within her that she would have destroyed Jason if he’d killed Macgruder. She wouldn’t have given Virgil a chance to get there first. She’d have taken Macgruder’s gun and finished Roth off. Sam watched her pull in the reins. He had never been prouder of her than he was at that moment. She was tough enough to withstand whatever happened in the future, of that he was totally sure. Her father would have been more than proud of her, he knew.

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Chapter 31 TIMBERLAKE was feeling restless. He’d been in this one-horse town too long, and he wanted to get on with his business. What was worse, he was sure that Jason didn’t fully appreciate the extent of his concern with getting the whole thing over with soon. Jason had an annoying way of seeming to be agreeing while planning to do exactly as he pleased. Timberlake ventured onto the dirty front porch of the hotel, s new cigar in one hand, and his goldknobbed walking stick in another. Men who are about to make history, he thought, should be able to do it in better places than a cattle railhead. He wondered if Alexander the Great had ever despised the places that he had been required to conquer. The townspeople were few and far between on the street that afternoon. Looking at their generally poor and dirty appearance, Timberlake bemoaned the fact that he hadn’t been born in a greater, and far more exciting, period of time. Just as he was about to let his eyes glaze over with visions of the riches of the bazaars of Istanbul, he saw the rider. He drew himself up to his full five feet, four inches. It was Jason. His heart leapt; he knew that Jason must have come to tell him that the herds were his. He felt like knighting the man with his walking stick, there in the middle of the street.

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“Jason,” he called out as the gunfighter drew closer. Timberlake hated to raise his voice in public, but this was a moment he wanted to savor as soon as possible. He couldn’t wait for Jason to stable his horse and search him out. The gunfighter reined in. Timberlake gestured magnanimously. “Come on in for a drink. We can talk at the bar.” Something was wrong. Timberlake sensed it as soon as Jason turned his head and squinted his eyes to identify the man in the shadow of the porch. Jason turned the horse toward the hitching rail, but didn’t tie him up. “I don’t think you’ll be having anything to drink about, Timberlake. The game is over. They’ve won. I came to return your money.” Jason watched the small man’s face turn purple in the space of a few seconds. Timberlake seemed unable to breathe. Slowly, he sank into one of the weatherbeaten old chairs on the porch. Jason dismounted and strode up the steps. “I just came to tell you that I’ve sent back all them men, all those scum of the earth, to whatever holes they crawled out from. Told them you couldn’t pay. They won’t be back and word will spread. None of them, or any of their kind, will work for you again. Once word gets out that men like you can’t pay, no one will ever believe your gold is good.” Timberlake managed to gasp a few words. “You bastard. I’ll have you killed for this. What made

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you turn chicken, you son of a bitch?” He shook the stick at the gunfighter. Jason snatched the walking stick with one swift turn of his wrist and snapped it across the railing of the porch. “You little man, don’t threaten me. You can’t hurt me and you know it. You bit off more than you could chew this time around. You don’t deserve to beat those men out there. They’re all so much better than you, you should be begging for their forgiveness.” Timberlake could barely believe what he was hearing. What had happened to his hired killer, his chief janissary? The man had gone crazy, loco, and must be shot like a rabid dog in the noonday sun. Jason pulled a small bag of gold coins from the inside pocket of his duster. “Here’s your advance, minus what I’d paid out in incentive money to the guns. Be grateful that I’m treating you this well. I could have killed you and taken every dime you had before I did it. I never want to hear from you again, Timberlake. Just think of it as a bad business investment and write it off.” The sarcasm in Jason’s voice was the most emotion Timberlake had ever heard from the hired gun. It frightened him more than Jason’s threats. “I’ll find out what happened, Jason. I’ll find out why you failed. You’ll never work again for anything more than peanuts.” Jason almost smiled. “Suits me, Timberlake.” Timberlake was still red with fury as Jason remounted his horse. “By the way,” he called back. “Garnett is dead, so you can’t use him any more. Good-bye, Timberlake. Don’t live too long.”

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Timberlake was tempted to pull the derringer from the pocket of his red brocade vest. But Jason was already too far out of range for the small weapon to be of any use. Suddenly, the little man picked up the broken pieces of the walking stick, and hurled them into the middle of the street. “Bastard!” he screamed. Jason whipped around, his gun drawn already. “If you want to die now, little man, just say so. I don’t give a damn for myself, so I may as well take you with me.” Timberlake watched the black shine on the pistol barrel. He knew his minutes of life were ticking away and felt himself melting into his clothes like a shrinking man. The sweat poured down his face. He prayed that Jason wouldn’t fire on an unarmed man in front of witnesses. He glanced around him and saw that the street was deserted. A few faces peered out at the scene from behind the safety of their storefront windows, but no one moved to save him from the maniac before him. “No,” he said in a small voice, looking directly at the gun, “I don’t want to die.” Jason holstered the pistol. “That makes only one of us.” Timberlake didn’t move a muscle until the horse and rider had disappeared past the edge of town.

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Chapter 32 THEY’D PUT him in one of the wagons and kept the herd moving. He’d told them they’d already lost too much time, and he wasn’t going to be the cause of losing any more. Besides, Macgruder figured that the sooner they got the drive over with, the sooner Morgan would marry him. She rode in the wagon with him for a few days, tending to his wound with a quiet that unnerved him. He’d been afraid of her words, afraid she’d feel that she’d lost everything once too often to risk anything again. Finally, when he felt stronger, he asked. “Did you mean it when you said you loved me?” Morgan looked up from the sketch pad she was drawing on. “I didn’t know you were awake. We’ve stopped for the night. You’ve been asleep most of the day. Feeling better?” He reached out for her hand and felt the small fist within his. “Been thinking a lot along with the sleep.” She didn’t pull her hand away from his. He took a deep breath. “I loved you from that first time, on the train. I don’t think you know that.” She looked at him, startled. “No, I didn’t. How can you love what you don’t know or understand?

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I’m not that simple, John.” “I know that. But I also know that you felt it too. You just didn’t want to admit it. Why?” “You should have some of the answers to that one by now.” She shoved ferociously at a lock of hair that had fallen into her eyes. “Some of it, yes. But I know too that I can learn to live with the woman you are, the woman who wants to live her own life, her own way. I can respect you for that. But can’t you share some of that life with a man who wants to live it with you?” Macgruder was surprised at his easy way of explaining it to her. He hadn’t expected to be able to say so clearly what he’d been thinking. But he figured it was about time, since he wanted to be able to talk with her with this same, easy familiarity for the rest of their lives. She stroked his clasping hand with her free one. “You know the worst there is to know about me. I guess that much is for sure. And I guess I know the worst there is about you. At least, so far. I’m not sure how much more stubborn and obstinate and bullheaded you can be, but plenty, I’d bet.” He laughed, feeling that now he was finally getting through her defenses. “I’d bet the same for you, greeneyes.” She looked surprised. “Sam used to call me that, when I was small.” He could hear the sounds of the herd being put to bed. The air was warm and soft, and he was beginning to itch already for the feel of Mancha and the saddle. “You didn’t answer my question. I’ll make a pact with you. The past is the past, for both of us. We’ll take the future a day at a time, and do

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the best we can. I’ll love you forever, you’ll love me forever. Who ever said that cowboys are dumb?” She smiled at him, deeply, genuinely. “Not me, that’s certain. I think I’ve been outfoxed by one with a hole blown in his side, who can’t even sit a horse. Heaven knows I could do a lot worse.” She leaned over suddenly and gave him a long, deep kiss. He reached to pull her back down to him, but she refused to yield. “But remember, cowboy, we’ve made a deal here. I’m my own woman, too. I won’t live in your shadow. I’ll do my share of the work, and I’ll run my ranch, my land, my way. Are we partners?” This time she yielded to his pressure and found herself in an embrace that she knew would never cease. “You’ve made a deal, partner,” she heard him reply. She decided there and then to frame the sketch of him she’d been drawing for his wedding present.

* The End *