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I’m fired upon, I’ll fire back,” the Montana Kid called out, taking Sam’s words to be aimed deliberately at him.
    â€œSo I’ve seen,” Sam said without looking back.
    As he walked on, he heard Black speaking to Burke in a lowered tone.
    â€œWho put him in charge?” Black asked.
    â€œKeep your mouth shut, Stanley,” Burke growled in reply, “before I stick a rock lizard in it and sew it shut.”
    Sam stared straight ahead at his dun and the spare horse. Yes, he could see he was taking the lead with these men, but so be it, he told himself, walking on toward the horses. Somebody had to take charge. This harsh land had no respect of person or his objective. It didn’t matter that he was a lawman working under cover. In this deadly terrain, staying alive dwarfed all other purpose and intent.

Chapter 3
    At dark, the five had reached a high summit and stepped down from their saddles. They led the tired horses under a limestone shelf overhang and dropped the saddles from their sweaty backs. They poured tepid water from their canteens into their upturned hats and held the sparse offering up to the horses’ muzzles. Sam took a dried goat shank from the supplies carried by his spare horse. Walking over to where the men had fallen to the ground and leaned against their damp saddles, Sam pitched the meat down to Burke.
    â€œHere, take some and pass it around,” he said.
    Burke caught the shank and gazed at it hungrily as he pulled a knife from a sheath at the back of his trouser waist and carved a thin slice.
    â€œObliged,” he said up to Sam. “No matter where I’ve gone in life, there’s always goat meat waiting for me.” He chuckled and passed the shank to the Montana Kid.
    Montana cut himself a thin slice and handed the shank on to Stanley Black, whose severed hat brim dropped again, in spite of the rawhide strip holding it. Instead of dealing with tightening and retying the rawhide, Black jerked the hat from his head and slapped it to the ground. He quickly took a slice of goat and passed the shank on to Childers.
    Childers turned down the meat, looking as if even the sight of it sickened him.
    â€œHow’s the shoulder coming?” Sam asked, noting the wounded gunman’s lack of appetite.
    â€œIt’s pounding like a drum straight up from hell,” Childers replied. “It’s pounding inside my head as well as in my shoulder.” He leaned his head to the side and spat in the dirt. “I’d like to catch the kid who arrow-spiked me and beat him senseless with a stove poker. That would teach him.”
    Teach him what?
    Sam considered it and only nodded, knowing it was Childers’ pain talking.
    â€œIf you can make yourself eat some, you should,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re going to need all your strength if we’re riding all night.”
    Boyd Childers didn’t answer. The other men gave one another a guarded look. Burke finished chewing a mouthful of goat and swallowed it dry.
    â€œSpeaking of riding all night, Jones,” he said, “do you suppose that’s the best idea?”
    â€œI wouldn’t have proposed it otherwise,” Sam replied. He stared flatly at Burke, anticipating more to come. The others sat chewing, watching intently. This was something the four had talked about among themselves along the trail, Sam decided. “Why do you ask?” he said.
    Burke coughed and cleared his throat. He winced a little before speaking.
    â€œThe thing is, we was wondering why we can’t lay up here for the night. Get ourselves and our horses rested—”
    â€œWe talked about this already, Clyde,” Sam said, cutting him off. He took the goat shank from Childers and wrapped its canvas cover back around it.
    â€œI know we did. We’re just wondering, is all,” Burke said. “But we’re all worn out here. Our horses are worn out. Childers is