Tyrone had spent the last couple of days riding from one isolated ranch to another, meeting the owners and advising them about being wary of strangers. Nobody had anything helpful to say, which both disappointed and cheered the young marshal. Confident that the families he'd spoken to would be alert and prepared for any suspicious travelers, he headed back to the north to visit one more ranch that was located just west of the stage route that ran from Danby through Buffalo Stump, to points south.

He guided his horse up out of the narrow draw, breaking out into a stretch of low, rolling grassland, split by the hard packed, wheel rutted scar of the stage route. The small, moving speck, to the south, caught his attention immediately, and he slipped back into the lip of the draw to watch and wait. The sun crept higher in the blank sky and the moving dot shimmered like rainwater on a window. Tyrone was thankful for the little shade he was able to muster in the shelter of the draw, and he squinted hard, trying to bring the closing speck into focus. Fifteen minutes later, there was no doubt that the speck was a lone rider, moving at a slow gallop along the dusty stage trail. Tyrone slipped his rifle from the saddle and positioned himself beside a dry, spiky bush. He led the rider with the rifle sights until he was almost opposite the draw, then moved his aim about fifty feet ahead and fired a shot into the dirt road.

Wesley yelped, bringing Dammit to a quick halt and pulling him up on his hind legs. In a panic, he slid from the horse, grabbing his rifle, and flattening himself on the ground between its legs.

"This is Marshal Tyrone Hartman speakin'. Throw down that rifle and step out from behind your horse." Wesley strained to see where the voice was coming from, speaking nervously to Dammit, trying to keep him still. "I ain't gonna repeat myself mister. Throw out that rifle or I'll shoot your animal dead where it stands."

"Wait!" Wesley hollered back, frantically trying to come up with an idea. He still wasn't sure where the other man was, which pretty well negated any action he might take, and risking his horse was out of the question. "Okay! I'm comin' out."

"Rifle first!" The voice was harsh. Wesley did as he was told, and stepped out just in front of Dammit, his hands slightly raised.

The man appeared from the draw leading his horse, a rifle held hip high, aimed straight at Wesley. When he was about twenty feet away, he stopped and waved the gun barrel. "Unbuckle that holster and toss it away."

"You said you were a marshal?" Wesley asked, undoing his belt and flinging it off to the side. The man twisted his body slightly so that Wesley could see the badge. "Marshal, my name's Wesley Torrance. I'm a farmer from the Golden Sky Valley. I'm headin' for Buffalo Stump."

Tyrone looked him up and down for a moment. "Comin' from the wrong direction, ain't you?"

"I can explain. Will you let me explain?"

"Sit right down where you are . . . on your hands." Wesley obeyed immediately, his brain trying to convince him that this really was a marshal.

Tyrone scanned the land in all directions, satisfying himself that they were alone. "Start talkin' Mister Torrance."

Wesley related his entire story, without interruption, from the time he left Danby until his decision to head for Buffalo Stump. When he was done, the two men just stared at one another in silence. The marshal seemed to be weighing his story against something that he already knew. "Can I move my hands? My fingers are numb."

Tyrone gave a sharp nod, raising the barrel of the rifle slightly. "Y'know the law don't take kindly to vigilante revenge."

"Yeah? Well when did the law ever prevent the reasons? You're only around to try and clean up afterwards."

"Empty out your pockets."

"Huh?"

"I said, empty out your pockets . . . it's a sort of preventive measure." Tyrone gave him a grim smile.

A bank of muddy clouds trundled across the fog coloured sky from the northwest. The sun that had been so hot and bright earlier, surrendered the stage to a new performer. Wesley looked up, smelling the breeze that had sprung forth and the scent of impending rain. The two men urged their horses into a faster gallop, hoping to find some shelter before the rain started.

"There's one more ranch I was goin' to visit on the way back." Tyrone called across to Wesley. "There should be a marker alongside the road soon for the Meier place. It's about half a mile west of here. We can likely hole up there for a bit." Wesley just nodded, his eyes on the oily clouds as they tumbled lower across the horizon. A fork of white lightning split the sky between the low clouds and the fading horizon, followed by an ear-splitting crack of thunder a few seconds later. They could see the curtain of rain ahead of them, engulfing the landscape as though erasing it from the earth. The signpost was flat on the ground, partially covered by scrub, when Tyrone spotted it, reining in and pointing to the west.

"There it is! This way." He kicked his horse into a gallop again, trailed closely by Wesley. Another flash of lightening, off to the right, still hung in the sky when the boom of thunder sounded, and they felt the first large drops as the rain crept over them. They made for a stand of trees along the south edge of the ranch property, the thick overhead branches surprisingly filtering the rain to a thin screen. Dismounting, the two men automatically both pulled ponchos from their bedrolls and slipped them on, huddling between the skittish horses. The storm had suddenly turned day to night, and when the next flash of lightening came, they both saw the front door of the small house, banging open in the wind.

"That doesn't bode well." Tyrone said. "And look over there." He pointed to a young colt running loose in the side yard, its eyes wild with fear, changing direction with each flash of light.

In spite of the rain coursing down his cheeks, Wesley felt his throat dry up, memories of his own cabin intruding on the scene. "Best have a look. You go 'round to that side window, I'll take the front door."

"If he's in there and I see him, I'm gonna shoot." Wesley said, checking the cylinder on his Colt.

Tyrone turned to him, the water collecting in his rolled hat brim spilling out in a thin stream. "Don't carry that preventive theory too far Mister Torrance. I want proof positive that you still ain't the man I'm lookin' for." Wesley gaped at him, moving his mouth but saying nothing. "Don't get excited now, let's just take things a step at a time . . . carefully." He moved to the edge of the trees, straining to see through the sheeting rain, then broke into a running crouch, squashing a path over the young corn stalks.

Wesley tugged his hat down and followed, angling toward the side of the house. A thready vein of ditches, formed by the pounding rain, carried muddy water across the yard and down the shallow slope to the cornfield. Wesley slipped and went down on one knee, cursing as his hand plowed into the mucky ground. He wiped it on the poncho and got up, scooting for the side window.

Tyrone stood with his back to the wall beside the banging front door, steadying himself and taking deep breaths. Timing the swing of the door, he poised himself and dove into the room in a roll, coming up on one knee and aiming his gun around the empty room. With the exception of a small hatchet lying in the middle of the carpet, everything appeared normal. A dim glow from the fireplace was all that suggested anyone might have been there. He stood slowly, checking the dark corners and under the large table then, noticing Wesley's face pressed against the window, trying to see in, he crossed the room quietly. The tap on the glass nearly stopped Wesley's heart, and he slipped backwards, landing flat in the muddy yard, his poncho flying up over his face. Recovering quickly, he scrambled, half crawling, half running, to the front of the house and up onto the porch. When he entered the room, Tyrone was standing at the bedroom door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side.