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City, all too aware that once again he'd
    failed to track down the outlaw called El Lobo.
    Rumors had sent him on a wild-goose chase from New Mexico Territory, farther east than he'd
    ever ventured. Having come to yet another standstill, he wasn't inclined to return to such
    "civilized" country short of Apocalypse.
    He found a seat, a safe distance away from ladies who might be offended by his rough dress
    and lack of a recent bath, and gazed out the window. It was foolish to think that El Lobo would
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    have reason to travel east. He was as much a man of the frontier as Weylin himself. He might
    have some skill at disguise, but he wouldn't last long in… New York, for instance, where Cole
    had turned himself into a rich dandy and had all but rejected his Texas roots.
    Strange to think that Weylin had more in common with El Lobo than with his own brother.
    Strange, and uncomfortable. Cole would expect another report on his progress in catching the
    desperado, and he wasn't going to be happy. That was the single responsibility Cole left to his
    brother;
    "one of the only things you're any good at," he'd said last time he came back to the Territory.
    Weylin had failed. Again. He had no right to criticize Cole, who'd made the family name
    something to be reckoned with all over the States, and had increased the MacLean wealth a
    hundredfold. All Weylin managed was taking some small part in running the ranches in New
    Mexico and Texas, and he wasn't even in charge. He'd never wanted to be.
    He permitted himself a rare sigh. Cole was the one who wanted power. He'd always been that
    way; that was what caused the fights between him and Father. And it was after Kenneth died
    that Father started to groom his youngest son to succeed him—not Cole, who was most suited
    for it.
    No wonder Cole resented him. At least the will hadn't been changed before Father was
    murdered; Cole got what he wanted. He ran the MacLean empire, even if from a distance. And
    that left Weylin to take revenge for Father and the loss of MacLean property.
    "The problem with you," Cole had said more than once, "is that you're a coward at bottom.
    Father coddled you too much. He kept you out of the War; he let you turn tail when we went
    after Fergus Randall for killing Kenneth. I had to do the dirty work. But that's past, Weylin. I
    won't soil my hands anymore. You bring Randall in, dead or alive, and I'll know you're still a
    MacLean."
    A MacLean. That was worth being, no matter what people said about Father's methods. He'd
    been a hard man. You had to be, out here.
    Ruthless, Weylin thought. You have to be ruthless, as much as El Lobo. Think like him. Forget
    about honor and justice.
    But he couldn't forget. That was what Cole didn't understand. Just like Father wouldn't have
    understood.
    Weylin rested his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. I can damn well be a MacLean
    and still care about the law, Cole, even if you don't.
    It was Cole's mistake, thinking he was any less committed, any less resolute in his mission
    because he did things his own way.
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    He pulled his hat low over his forehead, settled his gun more comfortably at his hip, and let
    himself drift. He dreamed of an endless chase, always a step behind a dark brown wolf who
    laughed at him with jaws agape. He dreamed of tossing his lariat again and again, only to have
    it fall short while the wolf laughed again.
    And then the dream shifted. Suddenly he, not the wolf, was one step ahead. He could smell El
    Lobo's scent on the wind. The hairs on the back of his own neck twitched in response. He heard
    his father's voice: We don't have to turn into varmints to rule this country. And Cole's:
    Becoming a beast is a waste of the power we were born with. We're superior, not animals.
    Which meant they were superior to the Randalls, who'd always run as wolves. Weylin
    suppressed the