John rode over to him. “Yep, no way to know which way to take from here.”

He opened the crate while Wyatt steadied it. Slid another bird out of the door and quickly closed it. “Keep a sharp eye.”

Everyone nodded. He released the bird. It flew straight east.

The only direction without a trail, and a direction at odds with where the other bird seemed to be heading.

“That one’s going to Casper,” Cheyenne said.

“Let it get out of sight.” Falcon rode up close. “I don’t know if a homing pigeon might follow its friend, but in case that could happen, let’s wait a spell.”

The bird vanished from sight.

“I envy that bird its fast wings,” Molly said, mostly to herself. She’d ridden up on Wyatt’s left while John was on his right. Falcon and Cheyenne were a few paces ahead of them on the trail, Sheriff Corly at their side.

Wyatt rested one gloved hand on her back, drawing her eyes from the spot where the bird had been lost in the distance.

He smiled.

They really did need to have that talk.

John reached for the crate. He tossed the friendly bird gently into the air. It spread its wings and went flapping east, too.

A third pigeon headed east.

“Two left,” the sheriff said. “We’re running out of chances.”

Molly said a quiet, intense prayer for the Lord to lead them all, including the pigeon. John released the second-to-last bird. It soared like an arrow in flight, heading north. The center trail, into the thickest woods.

They watched to pinpoint where it flew out of sight.

There was a long trail downward and another peak beyond. The bird went on north, straight and steady, beyond the next peak.

They were a long time riding down, then back up. Everyone was wary. Molly found her nerves taut as she tried to look for hidden gunmen. There were too many likely places for an outlaw to stand guard over the trail.

At the top of the next peak, the mountain was white with snow but not above the tree line. The trees held the snow better than that last barren peak. It was growing colder by the moment. The icy wind penetrated Molly’s coat, and no one else could be much better. The way was impossible to guess. No obvious tracks. The snow was packed and slippery. Trees seemed to surround them, and snow fell heavily enough they couldn’t make out a trail anywhere.

A stream gushed out of a crack in the mountain nearby. Despite the cold, it was a stunning place. The stand of evergreens with their lush needles was broken here and there by the bare branches of an oak or cottonwood or a copse of aspen trees.

Molly looked at the beautiful, forbidding forest. The snow had turned to needles of ice, and her fingers were numb with cold.

They had one bird left.