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of Cheyenne dog soldiers, from Kansas to Nebraska and then through Wyoming. He had systematically been picking off members of one of the militant tribes—a slit throat here, a sniper shot there—and the second group he’d simply followed by reading the news clippings detailing the destruction the dog soldiers had left in their wake.
    As soon as he had coldly finished executing the first tribe, he made his way to the Pony Express station that was Fort Laramie. There, he not only found his pay “for services rendered to the United States Army”—he ground his teeth in memory—but also the message from Red Creek’s sheriff requesting those same services be used to rout a rogue band of dog soldiers from the hills surrounding the small mining town.
    It hadn’t taken long for him to ascertain that the second group he’d been tracking was the same band that evidently had terrorized a pair of lesser towns near Red Creek. Led by a brave named Cloud Rider, the warrior tribe was known for its arsonist tendencies. The burned homesteads trailing from Fort Collins to the outskirts of Denver were all the proof Del needed, so off he headed for Red Creek.
    The sheriff stood, clearing his throat as he set the rifle carefully on the desk. “We… I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
    “I’d ask how you got my name in the first place.”
    The sheriff blinked. “Your name?”
    Delaney settled a hand on his gun hip, casually. After the morning he’d had, he didn’t have time for games. “Yeah, my name. I’m not a gun for hire.”
    “Oh?” the sheriff queried archly. “Every lawman from here to Council Bluffs knows of the Dog Man Killer. The gray-coat turncoat.”
    Del’s gun was in his hand and pointed at the man’s smug face in less than a second. “Careful.” He cocked his pistol, the sound ominous in the small room. “Careful whom you call a traitor.”
    The sheriff blanched. “You…you didn’t leave your company before the end of the war, then?”
    Del had, as a matter of fact. He’d left every single one of them dead in a scorched field. How he had survived—if what he’d done could be called surviving—was nothing short of a miracle. What came after that field…
    What came after was a story the sheriff would never hear. “I did not,” Del said, twisting an already twisted truth.
    “But you work for the Army.”
    “I’m a contractor.” It was as good an answer as any.
    Silence reigned between them as the sheriff considered Del’s words. He was a tall man, taller than Del, and lean. His unbuttoned vest hung loosely on narrow shoulders, his tarnished badge pinned to one lapel. His brown hair was trimmed short above his ears and at his nape, and his mustache lay neatly groomed beneath a large nose. The lines around his eyes were tight, his thin lips pinched, as he studied Del. “A contractor.”
    Del’s aim stayed steady, the Remington an extension of his arm. “Do you want my help or not?” It would be no skin off his nose to kick up his heels in Red Creek for a few days, perhaps in one of the rooms on the second level of the Ruby Saloon. Perhaps in one of those rooms with a certain freckled redhead—
    “Yes.” The sheriff interrupted Del’s thoughts, leaning over the desk with his hand extended. “Hank Nelson.”
    Sliding the pistol back into its holster, Del shook Nelson’s hand. The government paid Del good money to take care of the violent Cheyenne tribes, Cloud Rider’s band among them, so he’d do what needed to be done here, regardless. And as Nelson’s request came with the promise of a reward in return for his assistance, Del wasn’t about to turn down a little extra coin for his pocket.
    Four years ago he’d never have been so mercenary.
    Four years changed a man, indelibly.
    “We’re glad to have you, Crawford. Most of the savages have been extracted from the Territory, but there are still a few tribes here and there.”
    He remembered Miss Tully vouching for the peaceful Cheyenne.