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final swig of rye into the drummer’s mouth and watched him swallow it. When he let out a whiskey hiss and settled down with his eyes closed, Jenny raised the bottle to her lips and took a large swallow. Lowering the bottle, she handed it to Maynard Dawson and wiped a thin wrist across her mouth.
    â€œSew him up, Ranger,” she said firmly as lightning flashed around the edges of the window cover, and she sat looming over the drummer, her weight ready to press him down if need be. Thunder split apart like stone in the sky above them.

Chapter 3

    A full hour later as the storm continued to rage its way past them like an army at war, the Ranger finished drawing the last stitch taut beneath his bloodstained fingertips. When he leaned back and gave the young dove a nod, she patted the man’s trembling shoulder and sat back against the coach seat. Across from her the two coachmen sat staring, soaking wet from having searched without success for the other four horses.
    â€œWe’re all done, Mr. Weir. You’re going to be good as new,” she said quietly down to the swollen, battered face in her lap.
    â€œI know it,” he replied in a halting, trembling voice. He managed to reach a hand out in search of the rye bottle. Dawson leaned forward and gave it to him. “I expect I’ll be leaving now?” he asked.
    â€œHe’s out of his head,” Jenny Lynn whispered to the Ranger. Patting Tunis Weir on a shoulder, she said, “You poor dear man, you won’t be going anywhere. Lie still now.”
    â€œThe stitches have stopped you from bleeding as bad,” Sam said to the wounded man. “But we still need to get you back to Nogales and have the doctor look at you—make sure nothing’s broke.”
    â€œObliged, Ranger,” he murmured through swollen lips. He took a shorter drink from the bottle and handed it to Jenny Lynn, who in turn gave it to the shotgun rider. Dawson took it as he continued staring down at the drummer, engrossed.
    â€œI once sewed up a dog’s neck,” he said as if in awe.
    â€œIt ain’t the same,” Long said sarcastically.
    â€œI know it,” said Dawson. “I’m just saying, is all.” He started to raise the bottle to his lips, but Long yanked it from his hand, corked it and placed it on the seat beside him.
    â€œKeep your head clear, Maynard,” Long said. “We’ve got plenty to do without you getting
wallowing drunk
on us.”
    â€œWallowing drunk?” said Dawson. “When did I ever get—”
    â€œWill those two horses pull this stage back to Nogales?” Sam asked Long, cutting Dawson short.
    â€œThey’ll do it, but they won’t be fit for nothing for a week afterward,” Long said.
    â€œWe can go search for the others again if you want us to,” said Dawson.
    â€œThe longer we sit around here wiggling our toes, the worse the flooding is going to get in every direction,” Long reminded his shotgun rider.
    â€œDon’t leave on my account,” Tunis Weir blurted out mindlessly in a half-conscious whiskey stupor.
    â€œShush
now, Mr. Weir,” Jenny Lynn whispered down to him, carefully stroking his lumpy, stitched-up forehead. “You go on to sleep—let them talk.”
    The Ranger and the two coachmen had turned at the drummer’s sudden outburst. Now they huddled together at the closed door, the rain lashing at the window cover and pounding sidelong on the wooden coach door. The thunder and lightning quieted down for the moment.
    â€œWe can search for the other horses as we go,” Sam said, picking the conversation back up where they’d left it.
    â€œWhat about that roan? That cayuse of yours?” Long asked the Ranger. “Will he back to a load?”
    â€œI expect he’ll do it, but he’s not going to like it one bit,” Sam said. “Neither will I.” He looked back and forth between the two