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haven’t taught me that one.”
    â€œGood memory—what makes you sing. Bad memories are a fog.”
    Bishop shook his head. “You act like you don’t understand,” he said, then held out his right while White Fox fitted the shotgun rig onto him.
    â€œI killed a man last night and I’m ready to go after a hell of a lot more. A year ago such a thing would have been unthinkable. Everything’s changed.”
    â€œNot changed, changing.”
    With the deerskin lining, the cup fit snugly over Bishop’s arm, cradling it instead of rubbing it raw. He leaned forward without being asked, as White Fox fastened the straps across his shoulders before tightening the slack of the line to the shotgun triggers. The rig felt good this time.
    White Fox said, “You’re not clear. Not yet.”
    Bishop would have started his old argument, but stopped when White Fox pressed her hand against the back of his neck, just two fingers squeezing, as a signal. He turned as she tilted her head in the direction of the cave entrance, listening.
    The wind outside was a low whistle, but someone’s words were carried on it, and then lost. They sounded close, though. Bishop thought he heard the nickering of several horses; White Fox was sure.
    She leapt to her bedroll, lifted the blanket, and grabbed her short bow and beaded quiver, which she slung over her shoulder. She moved along the cave wall, staying on the balls of her feet as she worked her way to a small outcropping of rock by the entrance. The quiver was tight with arrows as she pulled one, fitted it to the bow, and drew back, waiting.
    She threw Bishop a nod; the look told him there was no more time for doubt.
    Bishop understood. “Maybe I should forget about Beaudine, my brother, all of it.” He spoke loudly enough for his voice to echo through the cave, and to cover the sound of his dropping two shells into the Greener, locking the double barrel.
    Bishop stood, bringing the weapon up. “That is the best way to find peace.”
    He moved his shoulders, adjusting the strap to tighten the slack on the line to the two triggers. He started for the cave entrance, then planted his feet, with the rig waist-high. Whoever was outside was sure to see him.
    White Fox approved with a blink of her eyes, keeping her bow and breathing tight.
    There was more low speaking from outside, and a few heartbeats. Bow and triggers were ready, when a ragtag soldier charged the cave entrance, brandishing a torch in one hand and a Navy Six in the other.
    Ragtag screamed, “Welcome to Hell!”
    White Fox let go, and the arrow tore through Ragtag’s jawbone, shredding his cheek. His scream choked into a gurgle.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Dead Man
    Just ten minutes earlier, and Captain Creed brought his tall chestnut around to face the men riding with him. He threw an arm toward the cave. “Bishop’s hole up with that dog-eater. I can smell ’em. Earn your pay.”
    Ragtag, in Union blues, grabbed Creed’s reins to lead him to a small slope, just to the side of where the cave split the mountain face. Creed kicked at Ragtag from his stirrup, keeping his voice low. “ Their horses!”
    Ragtag quick-stepped to the tree where the painted and the bay were tied, while Creed’s other men cleared the snow in four small areas about ten feet from the cave entrance. They worked in joined silence, their leathered faces covered by rough wool scarves and with collars turned up. Ragtag led the painted and bay away, the horses nickering.
    It was a bright, clear morning with no warmth to be felt, just bitter cold, even as the sun threw diamonds off the snow and ice. This was the kind of February that had strangled everything on Creed’s place, with no hope of resurrection in the spring. But Creed didn’t blame the weather or the Almighty for his plight; he blamed the man in the mountain.
    Creed eased back on the cantle of his hand-tooled saddle,