Young Daniel crouched next to the shiny black boots of Ethan Bragg and peered out beneath the rough wood of the saloon doors. Sheriff Bragg leaned on the top of the swinging doors watching as the rickety wagon bounced and toppled along the rutted muddy street to a halt in front of his office. Reaching into his pocket, he fished out a five-cent piece and passed it down to the eager hand of his new helper, smiling to himself at the young lad's enterprise. Setting his hat, he pushed through the doors and strode along the wooden porch toward the wagon.

"You the sheriff then?" The voice grated, savaged by drink and tobacco, its owner equally rough.

"Ethan Bragg. You got business with the law?" He paused and leaned against a post, his hand hanging loosely on the butt of his gun.

The man grunted and turned to the back of his wagon, pulling back a pile of dirty skins, exposing the dead body buried beneath them. "Found 'im and his dead mule up in the high country three days ago. Both shot— up close."

Bragg stepped down into the street, wrinkling his nose at the stench and swatting away the cloud of flies that had swarmed about the exposed, rotting flesh. "Why'd ya cart 'im around for three days. Should a buried him up there." Gingerly, he hauled the skins back over the corpse and stepped back onto the porch.

"His name's Jimmy Widger. I've know'd 'im near twenty years now. Figured he should get proper grave, with a marker an' such. Never harmed no one his whole life. Always generous to strangers. A good man. Liked to live by his lonesome, him and old Bones, his mule."

Bragg studied the man. "And what's your name?"

"Tucker. Arley Tucker. Like ol' Jimmy here, I hunt and trap the country above the tree line. Best part o' thirty years now."

Bragg let his eyes wander over the man, taking in the homemade coat of mixed, ratty skins, the frayed cap with fur-lined earflaps and the cracked, scruffy boots. "Any idea, Arley, how your friend wound up this way?" He cocked his head toward the lumpy cargo.

"Best as I could tell from the site, he had a meal with one man. Mugs an' plates and such. Some tracks but nothin' telltale." He burrowed in his coat pocket and extended a fingerless, gloved hand toward the sheriff. "Found these in the fire pit. Peers as like the killer reloaded and jest dumped them."

Ethan took the cartridge casings from the man's hand and held them up for a look. Scratched on the side of each casing were the initials, PBP. "Ever seen them initials before, Arley?"

"Nope. On'y bullets I ever seen with them kinda markin's was military. Course they was rifle bullets."

Bragg slipped them into his pocket and straightened up, stretching. "Best get that over to the undertaker. Ask for Hector Field, tell 'im Sheriff Bragg said to do right by you." He touched the brim of his Stetson and went into his office.

*****

Cable Royce leaned on the pommel of his saddle and watched through slitted eyes as the four-wagon train snaked slowly across the valley floor. He could make out two or three cows and a pair of horses tied to the trailing wagon, and up front a lone rider, with a rifle propped against his thigh, keeping the train at a steady pace. Soft plumes of beige dust puckered up from the grinding wheels and the animal's hooves, giving the appearance of a much longer convoy. Royce kicked his horse and began a casual decent, angling for the front of the train. As he reached the valley floor, and urged his horse into a steady trot, the lead rider reined in and swung around to face him. His rifle now held level across the side of his saddle.

Cable boldly rode straight for him, a wide, disarming smile decorating his face. He pulled to a stop beside the man, nodding pleasantly and casting a glance back over the trailing wagons. "Howdy. Any chance a lonesome traveler might ride along for a while?"

"It's a private train friend, I'd haffta speak with them." He waved the rifle barrel back toward the wagons.

"Mind if I speak along with you?" Cable sized up the rider, his eyes wandering over the silver decorated stock of the carbine and the twin, bone-handled revolvers nesting in low-slung holsters. This was a man of experience, he thought. A tough, no-nonsense scout, probably a one- time buffalo-hunter. Without a word, the man turned his horse, pausing until Cable was beside him, and walked his horse slowly back to the lead wagon.

"Mister Dunstan, this feller wants to know if he can ride with us a ways. Told 'im it was a private train, so it's up to you."

Cable smiled up at the stringy, older man, sliding his eyes across to the pretty women beside him, and tipped his hat. "Been alone in those hills for quite a while. Decided to head down and find some civilization. Sure would appreciate your lettin' me join up a spell."

Dunstan fiddled with the reins, looking from his scout to his wife and back to the stranger. "We're headed for the Milk River Conserve. Got family and friends waiting for supplies. Ain't much in the way of civilization there."

Cable sensed the old man was nervous about the way he'd smiled at his wife and adopted a weary, defeated posture. "I don't mean to go the whole way. Just lookin' for some company and maybe a decent meal or two. I'll pay for anything I use." He held out a pleading hand.

"I don't see no harm in lettin' him ride along Harold," the woman squeezed closer to her husband and permitted a tiny smile, "man's just looking for some company."

"I truly appreciate your hospitality ma'am." Cable let his grin linger on her a moment, before turning an innocent look to her husband. "If your scout don't mind, I could just ride up front with him, maybe get some news about what's happenin' in the country."

Dunstan frowned and glanced at his scout. "What do you think Mister Tate?"

Cable's eyes flew to the scout and he straightened defensively in his saddle. Gershwin Tate. He was right! One time food supplier for the military, buffalo-hunter and now wagon master. Not a man to take lightly.

"You're the boss Mister Dunstan. You say it's okay, then it's fine by me." He lifted the rifle from across the saddle and propped the stock on his thigh, pulling his Appaloosa around and signaling the wagons ahead.