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Territory border, its citizens declaring it to be the last white civilization for hundreds of miles. But civilization was an ironic choice of words for the place as far as Kit was concerned. Steamboats made their final stop at its port before the treacherous and varying depths of the western waters, and the settlement’s ramshackle businesses were the gathering ground for grizzled Ozark mountaineers like his late uncle. The town was also a former outpost for the United States Army before the government had gotten wise enough to move away to more worthwhile endeavors.
    Today, the muddy streets not far from the wharf and the houses of ill-repute on the Row swarmed with male travelers, settlers, Indians and tradesmen. Unlike St. Louis and Memphis, cities he was more familiar with, this outpost had few women and no cultured society to speak of. Kit wasn’t surprised though. His good friend Rory Campbell, captain of one of his uncle’s steamboats, had told him he would be lucky to find a single book, let alone an educated man, among the locals. According to the mayor, the town had no sheriff, so Kit supposed he had better postpone his visit to his new ranch and instead find Judge Harvey Murtagh, an old friend of his uncle’s and the only man in town who might keep him out of trouble for the shooting last night.
    After making a brief stop to deposit money in the Fort McNamara bank, Kit caught up with the judge while court was in recess. Murtagh’s office was in the former army barracks, a one-level brick building that served as the Western District courthouse. When Kit entered, the judge was smoking a cigar and staring out the window of his office.
    â€œGood morning, Your Honor.” Kit put his satchel in an empty chair before facing his uncle’s old friend.
    Murtagh, an Irish-American whose hair had gone snowy white, regarded him from beneath thick eyebrows. Deep lines etched the corners of his eyes, forehead and mouth, turning him into a somber-looking man even before taking into consideration the heavy burden of his office and the men he sent to the gallows.
    â€œMy clerk said you claimed to be an acquaintance of mine,” he said, his distinguished voice was slow as molasses. “But I swear, I’ve never laid eyes on you, nor do I recognize your name, Mr. Christopher Wainwright.”
    â€œYou knew my uncle Bartholomew. He must’ve met you when he traded in Indian Territory years ago. Furs, mostly. He was a trapper in his youth.”
    The lines around Murtagh’s eyes relaxed with recognition. “Bart Wainwright?”
    â€œThat’s right. He passed away last week. His last request was that I bring his ashes to the top of Dillard’s Peak, cast them over the river and repay you for some old debt he said he owed.” Another wave of guilt washed over him. He uttered the words from memory that Rory, his friend who’d discovered the old man in a pool of blood, had repeated for his benefit. Besides Kit’s remorse at not being there to protect his uncle from the bastard who’d killed him, he most regretted missing his dying words. “Sir, if my uncle owed you a debt, I’m here to make good on his pledge. I don’t know the circumstances, but I know my uncle. He wouldn’t make such requests lightly. If he borrowed money, I can pay you whatever amount he owed along with interest. He was a widower, and with me being his only heir, I inherited all his assets.”
    The judge took a draw from his cigar and thumped the butt against his windowsill, sending the ashes into the breeze outside. “Your uncle didn’t tell you anything about me?”
    A flash of embarrassment brought heat beneath his collar. “Most of our conversations consisted of Uncle Bart’s lecturing me about being a devil-may-care young scalawag he found so repugnant.”
    Skepticism painted the official’s features for a moment as he made a critical scrutiny of