Francis drove the horse hard. Every time the black even thought of slowing, he laid his rifle barrel with a vengeance across the gelding’s rump. What, exactly, he was going to do when and if he caught up with the mountain man, Francis wasn’t sure. Try to stop him, of course, but—if he couldn’t talk Mr. Grimes out of tangling with Braid, then at least help him. Two guns were always better than one.

Two hours of riding brought the moon higher and made it practically as light as day when it was actually almost ten o’clock at night.

Ten o’clock, Francis thought, goading the black to even longer strides. How I’ve changed. There was a time when ten o’clock at night meant getting wrapped in a huge quilt and bundled into bed, and feeling the warmth leave my face as the fire in the wood stove died. Died. There was a time when I didn’t even think of things that died. I didn’t know anything about all this killing. Nothing died, ever, except a farm animal now and then.

He pushed these thoughts from his mind. They were making him afraid—afraid that he might not catch up.

There would be times, later, when he would wonder about all the little things that kept him from reaching Mr. Grimes in time. If he had beat the black harder, or tried to make his break from the wagon train earlier …

As it was, he was only a split second late—the time that it takes a man to pull a trigger. He rode over a rise, and there, in a small, flat meadow, were Braid and Mr. Grimes.

They were riding hard at each other and, in the moonlight, the snow flying up around their horses as they closed looked like the fine spray thrown up in front of a ship. They were both stripped to the waist and carrying rifles. When the horses were fifty feet apart, the two men fired. Francis saw the rifles flash and both men tumble from their horse.

They had fired at the same instant, and the one-armed and one-braided men landed within ten feet of each other.

Francis’s mind went blank when the mountain man fell from his horse. He rode up, dismounted, and if he noticed the fifteen mounted warriors on the other side of the battlefield, he gave no sign of it. He didn’t care.

“Howdy, Mr. Tucket,” the mountain man said, wincing as he pulled himself to a sitting position. His shoulder was turning red. “I sort of figured you’d be along. Glad you could make it in time for the fun …” He winced again.

Francis tore his shirt off and wrapped it around the shoulder. Mr. Grimes pushed him away. “No-ah, Mr. Tucket. Not done yet.” He propped himself on one knee, then slowly stood, grunting, weaving.