Major Zane Warren Stiffton stood at military rest behind his desk listening to the older of the two marshals conduct his interview. Not a single blemish had touched his career until the miraculous escape of Cable Royce placed him in the degrading position of having to answer to civilian authorities. He kept his shoulders squared and his eyes straight ahead, giving terse, single word answers to the marshal's probing questions. One by one, his men had been called into the office and asked about their actions and opinions on the escape, none of which provided any insight into the embarrassing event.

"Well Major," the marshal drawled, "it would appear you've got a real security mystery on your hands. The Governor is quite concerned that some of your other ah, guests, might be privy to Royce's methods."

"I can assure you Marshal that however he managed his escape, it will not be repeated in my prison— and I will find out how he did it, one way or another." Stiffton settled his cold stare on the gangly man, slouched in the chair across from him.

Marshal Henry Gower eased his thin frame out of the chair and stood casually, leaning on the officer's desk. "My best advice is that you do, sir. "Cause if we get him back here, I want to make sure he stays." Stiffton felt his neck redden at the cold smile accompanying the marshal's words. Gower stood back and pulled on his Stetson, settling it low over his icy, blue eyes. "We've got a lead on him from a sheriff in Buffalo Stump, so we'll be headin' there directly." He held out a hand and waited, while the major overcame his reluctance to accept the gesture. "I'd appreciate your sendin' me any reports on your progress with this, sir." He held the major's hand firmly until receiving a terse nod of agreement. "Good. That's good sir. I want to thank you for your cooperation and that of your men." Gower turned and ambled from the office, spurs jangling and boots thudding on the wood floor, trailed by his silent companion.

*****

Wesley was riding point accompanied by Lucas Anderson, the sixteen-year old son of Kyle and Judith. Kyle was Wesley's strongest supporter for getting the train moving again, and confidently volunteered his son's service as Wesley's partner. An orange balloon of sun peered slowly over the horizon throwing a golden wash of colour across the valley floor, and putting the clear morning air on simmer. His thoughts drifted back to Megan DeHoyt and her desperate attitude when he inquired about her husband's condition.

"Karl's not well. He's had heart troubles for some time now." She clasped her hands over her face, stifling a sob. "I'm worried that the strain has been too much."

"Does he have any medicine or- or anythin' . . ."

She sighed and wiped at her eyes. "There's a doctor at the conserve who's been treating him, trying to get him to slow down, not worry so much . . . he- oh I don't know, it's in his nature."

Wesley watched her awkwardly, not knowing what to say. He felt an unaccountably strong pull toward her, her vulnerability. A sickening guilt filled his heart, as he looked at her soft brown hair, swept carelessly up over her smooth, pale face; the deep pools of her dark eyes and the pout of soft, pink lips. Tentatively, he placed a hand on her slender shoulder, muttering useless solace. She had given him a warm, sad smile, and patted his hand in appreciation; the tingling sensation turning his ears red.

Wesley looked over his shoulder, checking the progress of the three wagons, and turned to consider the boy, Lucas.

"You and your folks been out here long?"

"Just over a year now. We have a place on the Milk River Conserve." The floppy hat cast a deep shadow over his young face and wisps of blonde hair fluttered about his neck in the mild breeze.

"Is it a good life?"

"Papa says it will be, soon as we get our crops established and the building all finished. There's a whole passel of folks there and we all help each other."

"What were you doin' out here?" Wesley asked, studying a point up ahead where the trail wound around behind some low, wooded hills.

"Oh, every year we send a train back to Winthrop, the port where the Milk River joins up with all the supply boats from back east. We fetch seed and material an' such. Tools an' the like, you know."

"And everybody takes turns makin' the run I guess, huh?"

"That's right. This year it was our turn. Ain't no railroad out here yet, so's the only way we can get what we need."

Wesley slowed his horse as they neared the bend in the trail, cautioning Lucas to do the same. "Why don't you wait here a spell while I ride around this bend and take a look. Can you use that rifle?"

Lucas gave him a nervous look and fingered the trigger on the carbine his father had loaned him. "Pa taught me how to shoot. Guess I can hit what I aim at . . . most times."

Wesley smiled sadly, thinking about Mark, and the first time he'd let him pull the trigger of his Colt. Gwen had given him a proper tongue lashing for letting the boy fire the gun but Mark had been as excited as all get out.

"You think there might be trouble?"

"Just a precaution. You know the old saying, better safe than sorry. Give me about fifteen minutes, If I ain't back don't you follow. You hightail it back to the wagons and tell 'em what's happenin'."

"But I won't know!" Lucas' voice rose with a tinge of worry.

"Well son, If I ain't back you'll know it's somethin' bad." Wesley patted him on the shoulder and kicked Dammit into a slow cantor toward the bend.

As it turned the bend, the trail angled sharply downward into a wooded draw, shaded by stands of tall pines and cottonwood. The air immediately cooled, bathing his face refreshingly. Wesley took a final look back at the boy, who was standing in his stirrups and trying to see every last bit of him, before he passed out of view. A worn and battered, wooden sign stood awkwardly on the side of the trail; the words rough and faded. Smuther's Water Hole— I found it and Y'all kin use it! The date was too worn to read but Wesley admired Mister Smuther's gruff generosity. Holding Dammit to a slow walk, he entered the treed draw, taking out his Colt and thumbing the hammer. The closeness of the trees to the trail, cloaked Wesley in an eerie silence. Only the soft thud of Dammit's hoofs on the hard-packed ground penetrated its stillness, adding to the feeling of suspended time.

Wesley stopped moving, feeling Dammit getting skittish. His head pulled back and he began a nervous whinny, stamping his forefeet against the ground. Climbing down, he tied the reins to a stump of branch and walked forward into a clearing beside the trail. The covered wagon leaned drunkenly down on one corner, its wheel missing from the axle. Strewn around on the ground he could see broken sacks of seed and bolts of coloured material, unrolled and draped unceremoniously among the low hanging branches. Holding his pistol at the ready, he rounded the end of the wagon and stopped abruptly. The mauled, half-devoured body of a man lay lashed to the front wheel, the head dangling down unnaturally to one side. A blinding vision of his son flashed into his head and he stumbled sideways, grabbing the wagon frame for support.

The two large water barrels lay smashed on the ground; a long handled axe still sticking into the splintered staves of one. Wesley gathered himself and continued exploring the scene. The missing wheel puzzled him as he kicked aside the litter of pots, pans and other goods, which he figured were intended for the settlement. Next to the crude campfire, he poked at a pile of blankets that had been scattered and twisted around. Wesley knew right away that the large dark stains were dried blood, and he backed away with distaste. The whole scene was one of havoc and unrestrained rage. Beyond the fire pit, he could see signs where something had been dragged off into the trees, and he followed cautiously, steeling himself for what he might find.

Next to a surprisingly clear pool of water, which he figured was Smuther's Water Hole, stood an old cottonwood tree with a double trunk that grew out in a vee shape. Strung between the two trunks, Wesley found the missing wagon wheel. The body hung upside down from ropes lashed to the booted feet. It was high enough from the ground that whatever animals had discovered it, could only jump high enough to rip the flesh from the dangling arms. He felt the bile rise in his throat and a cold sweat covered his body making him light headed and shaky. The front of the body was riddled with bullet wounds that had bled and dried to crusty scabs, and below, around the edge of the pool of water, Wesley saw dozens of shell casings glinting in the filtered sunlight. Trembling, he scooped up a handful and examined the markings, expelling a noisy gasp as he read the initials PBP on two of them.

*****