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now?”
    I duck behind Silver and stretch my arms over her back so that when Tom’s partner appears on the ridge he’s already in my sights.
    â€œI’ll count to three, and if yer still here, I’m shooting,” I says. “One, tw—”
    He scrambles onto his horse and grabs the reins of the second. I watch ’em flee north, the dust blowing up pale. Once he’s gone, I whistle for Libby, knowing right well she’s outta ear shot and ain’t coming back. Pa had her nearly twenty years and I lose her in less than a day. It’s like I’m failing him all over again. Like I can’t get nothing right.
    â€œYou stupid idiot,” I says to the dead man at the base of the tree. “I ain’t a Rose Rider. I want ’em dead just like you, and alls you’s done is lose me a horse and get yerself killed.”
    His wide eyes stare up at me, and my pistol starts in my grasp. I stuff it back in the holster. I gotta move. The other man’ll be back, only I doubt by hisself.
    I throw my saddle over Silver, then cinch my gear in place. One glance at the extra effects Libby was carrying and I know I can’t afford to take them.
    Abe, you better be worthwhile,
I says to myself. Then Silver and I are moving again, a bullet streaking beneath the moon.

Chapter Four
    Abe’s appears on the horizon
just after dawn. My stomach’s growling and I ain’t slowed once to quiet it or even take a drink. Neither of which is smart. I’m sweating so much, dirt’s clinging to me like a gritty second skin, and the scent of last night’s campfire lingers on my flannel, reminding me that I been up a long while without refilling my stomach.
    Ahead, the homestead’s quaint—a modest house resting in the corner of a fenced plot of land. What ain’t quaint is the barn. It’s massive, big enough that I start wondering if the place is a ranch. I thought everyone living round these parts stuck to mining—that’s all Wickenburg’s been good for since the first strike at Vulture Mine over a decade ago—but I reckon beef and dairy’s gotta come from someplace. Could be Abe’s got an arrangement with folk in town, supplies them with goods on a schedule more dependable than incoming freighting wagons.
    I pull Silver to a halt ’longside the fence. A mangy-looking cattle dog lounges by the barn, where two boys—one round my age, the other a bit older—are saddling horses. They both pause to eye me. When I don’t budge, they argue a moment, and finally the older one walks over.
    He’s squinting like the sun’s in his eyes when it ain’t, and he makes a show of tossing his jacket open so I can glimpse the pistol on his hip. The wine-colored handkerchief beneath his chin reminds me of one Pa used to wear. I feel my lip wanting to tremble, and I bite it.
    Not here. Not now.
    â€œYou lost, friend?” the boy says. Up close, I wager he’s round twenty. Dark stubble covers his jaw, and the only creases in his skin are the ones surrounding his eyes. Suppose he wouldn’t even have those if he quit squinting so much.
    â€œWickenburg’s just another few miles ahead. Keep right on following this trail.” He points it out like I’m blind.
    â€œI’m looking for Abe,” I says.
    â€œAbe’s dead.”
    â€œWhat? He can’t be.”
    â€œSure he can. Got kicked in the temple by a horse two years back and died the same day.”
    â€œBut I’m supposed to see him.”
    â€œThat’s gonna be a problem, then, ain’t it?”
    I’m ’bout to tell him he’s a rotten pain when I spot a flake of grief in his features. “I’m sorry for yer loss,” I says dryly.
    â€œYou and everyone but God, it seems.” He reaches a hand over the fence. “Jesse Colton. Abe was my father.” I bend from Silver and we shake. “This is the part where