Ridley’s expression changed instantly to wariness. “You’re wasting your time, Reverend. The man’s off stealing horses.”

“Maybe he just avoided you, Ethan?” Faulconer suggested.

“Maybe,” Ridley sounded grudging, “but I’ll still wager that Starbuck’s wasting his time. Truslow can’t stand Yankees. He blames a Yankee for his wife’s death. He’ll tear you limb from limb, Starbuck.”

Faulconer, evidently affected by Ridley’s pessimism, frowned at Starbuck. “It’s your choice, Nate.”

“Of course I’ll go, sir.”

Ridley scowled. “You’re wasting your time, Reverend,” he said again, with just a hint of too much force.

“Twenty bucks says I’m not,” Starbuck heard himself saying, and immediately regretted the challenge as a stupid display of bravado. It was worse than stupid, he thought, but a sin too. Starbuck had been taught that all wagering was sinful in the sight of God, yet he did not know how to withdraw the impulsive offer.

Nor was he sure that he wanted to withdraw because Ridley had hesitated, and that hesitation seemed to confirm Anna’s suspicion that her fiancé might indeed have evaded looking for the fearful Truslow.

“Sounds a fair offer to me,” the Colonel intervened happily.

Ridley stared at Starbuck, and the younger man thought he detected a hint of fear in Ridley’s gaze. Was he frightened that Starbuck would reveal his lie? Or just frightened of losing twenty dollars? “He’ll kill you, Reverend.”

“Twenty dollars says I’ll have him here before the month’s end,” Starbuck said.

“By the week’s end,” Ridley challenged, seeing a way out of the wager.

“Fifty bucks?” Starbuck recklessly raised the wager.

Washington Faulconer laughed. Fifty dollars was nothing to him, but it was a fortune to penniless young men like Ridley and Starbuck. Fifty dollars was a month’s wages to a good man, the price of a decent carriage horse, the cost of a fine revolver. Fifty dollars turned Anna’s quixotic quest into a harsh ordeal. Ethan Ridley hesitated, then seemed to feel he demeaned himself by that hesitation and so held out a gloved hand. “You’ve got till Saturday, Reverend, not a moment more.”

“Done,” Starbuck said, and shook Ridley’s hand.

“Fifty bucks!” Faulconer exclaimed with delight when Ridley had ridden away. “I do hope you’re feeling lucky, Nate.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Don’t let Truslow bully you. Stand up to him, you hear me?”

“I will, sir.”

“Good luck, Nate. And heels down! Heels down!”