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hell-bent on getting himself killed. All because of his worthless brother. Perhaps the man would come to his senses, but Jamie doubted it.
    Jamie headed straight west, crossing over into Utah. He camped along the Bear River for a couple of days, resting his horses, and then moved on toward the Mormon settlements just west of the Wasatch Range, along the Great Salt Lake.
    He had no way of knowing there were dozens of reporters waiting there for him.
    Ben Franklin Washington among them.
    What Jamie did know was that four of Miles Nelson’s men were in the area, hanging out somewhere between Ogden and Logan. And he had learned that four more of the gang were hiding out north of there, up in Southern Idaho. They would be next on the list.
    A farmer in a wagon whoaed his team upon spotting Jamie and hailed him. “You’d be Jamie MacCallister, sir?”
    â€œI would,”Jamie replied with a smile, always surprised that so many people knew his face.
    â€œWhole passel of newspaper writers waitin’ for you in town,” the farmer told him. “Snoopin’ around and askin’ a bunch of fool questions. But them thugs that was in the gang that killed your wife is just north and some east of Brigham City, at a tradin’ post. The law won’t interfere, Mr. MacCallister. Long as no innocent person gets hurt.”
    â€œTo the best of my knowledge, sir, I have never harmed an innocent person in my life.”
    â€œGood luck to you.” The farmer lifted the reins, clucked to his horses, and rattled on up the road.
    Jamie turned Buck’s head and rode north. He had no wish to see a bunch of reporters.
    But Jamie was news, and reporters could smell out news like a bloodhound on a scent. And a little money spread out here and there to locals never hurt.
    When Jamie stepped Buck out on the road that led to the trading post, the reporters, the adventurers, the photographers, the painters, and the hangers-on were waiting for him.

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    Only a few of the reporters were sympathetic toward Jamie’s manhunt. Even in the 1870s, there were reporters calling for some sort of pistol control.
    When Jamie saw the saddle horses and buggies, he muttered, “Howin the hell? . . .” Then he saw Jones, staring hate at him. Jones must have ridden two or three horses into the ground to get ahead of Jamie. However he did it, it was done.
    But how did he know where Jamie was going?
    Then it came to him: Jones’s kid brother must be with the gang members here in Utah, or with the bunch up in Southern Idaho. That’s the only thing that made any sense.
    â€œTaking the law into your own hands again, Mr. MacCallister?” a reporter yelled.
    â€œHell with you,” Jamie muttered, then wheeled his horse and headed back into the timber.
    A few on horseback might try to follow, but even that was doubtful; for these were city folks, and without their guides, they’d be lost as a child in ten minutes.
    Jamie rode straight east at a trot, weaving in and out of the timber, letting Buck pick his own way, the packhorse following. After a couple of miles, Jamie stopped and allowed his horses to blow, then headed north with a smile on his lips.
    * * *
    â€œWhere’d he go?” Marshall Henry Ludlow demanded, twisting in the saddle.
    â€œDon’t ask me where he went,” Fifi said, sitting her sidesaddle. “I don’t even know where I am.”
    â€œHe’s pullin’ something,” Newby, the reporter’s guide, whispered to Hank. “MacCallister’s got more twists and turns than a snake.”
    â€œLet’s head for the trading post,” a reporter suggested, trying to ease his saddle-sore butt. “We’ll wait him out. He has to show up sooner or later.”
    Later. Much later.
    * * *
    Huddled around a fire, those members of the Nelson gang who were hiding out in Southern Idaho were growing restless and surly. It galled them to the bone to be hiding