Wesley Torrance reined in his horse and dismounted, arching his back and stretching his legs, as he gazed with pride across the valley to his newly registered land. Straining his eyes up the slope on the far side, he could just pick out the small tableland where they had built their temporary home. Checking the sun, he figured that if he hurried, he would be there in time to join his wife and son for dinner. Wesley climbed back on his horse, patting him on the shoulder and pulling his head away from nibbling at a sparse clump of grass. "Another hour Dammit, and you can have a real meal. Some sweet grass eh, watta ya say to that?" He squeezed his knees together and steered the supple animal down into the valley at a gallop.

The first thing Wesley noticed was the absence of smoke from the chimney pipe. Any other time, at this part of the evening, he always experienced the comfort of home when he saw the curl of white drifting gracefully against the darkening sky. Now, heavy brooding clouds were pushing over the mountain, consuming the last of the daylight. A slight wind had picked up, carrying the smell of rain, and Wesley urged Dammit up the last few yards of the incline to the cabin.

"Whoa boy! What's the matter?" He struggled to keep control of the horse as it pranced sideways, whinnying nervously. The dark clump in front of the wagon wheel caught his eye and he slowly dismounted, tying the still fidgety horse to the hitching post. He stooped forward, creasing his brow with confusion as he crossed the yard to the wagon. A few yards from the wheel, his legs began to tremble and his knees buckled, dropping him to the ground on all fours. Slack jawed, he gaped at the formless mess in front of him. Bits of stiff, dry flesh and torn clothing were stuck in the dark blotch of earth about the base of the wheel. A dirty hank of light brown hair hung down over the eyeless, half-eaten face, and what had once been a mouth was a black, tongue-less, encrusted hole. Wesley felt his stomach heave, and he scrabbled backwards in a panic, gasping for air. Finally forcing himself to take another look, he saw what his brain denied but his heart already knew. Around the bound, right hand wrist of the body was the colourful, braided Indian bracelet... Mark's lucky charm.

Wesley stumbled to his feet and staggered back to his horse, fighting to calm the frightened animal while he retrieved his canteen. He knocked his hat off and poured the tepid water over his head, taking a mouthful, then spitting it out as his stomach revolted again. A faint murmur of thunder crept down from the mountains and the breeze increased, whipping the dusty earth into scurrying plumes. Hanging the canteen back on the pommel of the saddle, Wesley turned and stared at the flapping hide covering the cabin door. Swallowing a sob and gritting his teeth, he stepped woodenly up to the entrance, took a deep breath and shoved the heavy hide aside.

The solitary window tried valiantly to focus what little light there was into the gloom of the cabin. Wesley stepped carefully forward and stopped, his nose assailed by a putrid stench and the sudden sound of something scurrying away in the dark. With trembling hands, he felt for the lantern and a match from the box on the wall. A sickly yellow glow threw eerie shadows up the plank walls and across the dirt floor. In the edge of the light, behind the table, he saw his wife's boots and he expelled a tortured cry filled with pain and fear.

*****

"But how'd he do it? How could he possibly escape?" Horace Tweedle was a store clerk who fancied himself a gunfighter. He had applied for the position of deputy to Sheriff Bragg when the previous deputy had taken a shotgun blast to the shins, leaving him crippled and bitter since it had been his own carelessness that ended his career. He had been pulling a passenger's luggage off the stage with one hand while holding his shotgun in the other. In a sudden misstep, he fell, discharging the gun and blowing both his lower legs to ribbons. Horace had leapt at the opportunity, discarding his apron in favour of twin, double action Colts and a long, leather cattleman's coat.

"Doesn't much matter since it ain't our problem." Bragg drawled, pinning the sketch of Cabel Royce to the wall behind his desk. "This is our problem." He stabbed a thick finger into the piece of paper, holding it there and giving it a twist.

"You think he might come to Stump, Sheriff?"

"Don't know Horace, but if he does . . ." Bragg let his concern trail off silently.

"Well he just might be sorry if he sets foot in Buffalo Stump." Horace preened smugly, parting his coat and resting his hands on the butts of his Colts.

Bragg gave him a weary look, picked up the copies of the sketch and headed out of the office. "C'mon Horace, we'll pass these around town so's folks can keep their eyes peeled."