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Will’s mind of everything but the hot wind whipping his face, the smooth pumping of Slick’s shoulders, and the sensation of flying rather than riding.
    Will checked the horse after most of a mile, tapping lightly at his mouth with the bit to slow him from the headlong gallop. Slick, initial burst expended, slowed to an easy lope, his chest and flanks breaking sweat.
    The West Texas sun beat down on man and horse as if it had a personal vendetta against them. Will shared his first canteen with his horse and rode on.
    The first indication Will had that he’d come upon his brother’s ranch was a tall pile of rough-cut fence posts and two coils of barbed wire. One of the top posts had an arrow sticking in it, surrounded by a dinner-plate-sized scorch mark. Maybe because the posts were too green, the intended fire never got started. In the distance Will saw a stone fireplace and chimney standing guard over the rubble around it.
    The house hadn’t been large—probably two bedrooms and a loft above. There’d been a porch around the front, and part of an overturned rocker lay on the burned surface. Pieces of glass sparkled in what would have been the inside of the house, no doubt from Sarah’s canned fruits and vegetables exploding in the conflagration. There was no discernable furniture: all the wood and fabric must have been consumed by the fire. A singed arm and hairless head of a rag doll protruded from under a collapsed, burned-through loft beam. A cluster of wires and burned wood confused Will at first. Then he saw the few piano keys that had partially survived. A lump rose in his throat, making breathing difficult. He wiped his face on a sleeve and swung Slick to the barn, a couple hundred feet from where the house had stood. There was next to nothing left of it. Will figured Hiram must have had his first cutting of hay in for the summer—and hay burns as readily as gunpowder.
    Grass was already growing well on the six mounds off to the side of the wreckage of the barn—four large mounds and two small ones. Will sat and stared at the overgrown little hills until Slick began to dancenervously, not understanding the strange, choking sounds coming from his owner.
    Will swung his horse away from the barn and house and rode toward Dry Creek.
    Lucas was whacking away at a horse shoe on his anvil. When he was satisfied with the shape he looked up at Will.
    â€œI’ll be headin’ out in the morning,” Will said. “I figure to buy you one of them steak dinners an’ all the beer you can drink as a send-off tonight.” He held out five gold eagles to the blacksmith. “This oughta take care of your work on Slick an’ his feed an’ the rent on the room.”
    â€œBullshit,” Lucas said. “I don’t take money from friends—an’ that’s what you are, Will. A friend. Plus, looks like I got a prime foal outta the deal if my mare took good, an’ I think she did. So put your money away.”
    Will had anticipated just such a reaction. Five gold eagles rested on the table next to the bed in the hayloft, along with a note that read, “Thanks, Lucas. See you soon, my friend. Will Lewis (of the H&W Cattle Ranch).”
    The steaks that evening were prime—thick, juicy, and perfectly cooked. The beer was bitter cold and tasted sharply of hops—the kind of beer a man could drink all night and thoroughly enjoy each and every glug. When they’d finished their meal, Lucas handed over a bill of sale with a crude map drawn on the blank side, showing a few towns and the spot he figured One Dog would swing across the river and into Mexico. Will studied it carefully. “What’re these round things?” he asked.
    â€œWater. Ain’t much of it out there. Far as I know, these here got at least a trickle year-round.”
    â€œGood. Thanks.” He folded the map carefully and put it in his shirt pocket. “What say we