He didn’t know what Annie’s reaction might be. She had seemed to have mixed feelings about Shipman the last time, but James never had paid much attention to what Annie said.

By the time he returned to the farm where Shipman lay recuperating, James had made up his mind. As soon as his partner appeared fit to ride, they would go to the Colorado. He had to circle around San Felipe, of course. That Mexican officer had a long memory, from what Annie’s letters had said. And James might have to sleep in the woods instead of in one of the Lewis cabins, but that was all right. He had been spending more nights under the stars than under a roof anyway. At this time of year it was no hardship.

He found a visitor at the farm, the one-eyed minister. Round of belly and gray of hair, the man came out to the horse pen to greet James as he rode in, leading the string of mules. “Well, young gentleman,” he said pleasantly, “your packs appear to be about empty. Commerce must be thriving.”

James doubted the minister would approve if he knew that some of those trade goods were whiskey.

“I done all right,” James admitted. “How’s Sly?”

“Mr. Shipman is doing quite well, praise the Lord, considering how near he came to confronting his Maker and accounting for all his past transgressions.”

James frowned. “What do you know about his transgressions?” He wondered if Shipman had been talking too much. A man in their profession could not afford to be overly free with conversation, at least about their business.

“Fear not,” said the minister. “I have no truck with the authorities. I am contraband here myself, you might say. As a Protestant servant of the Lord, I am in Texas in violation of Mexican law. It forbids all but Catholics, as you must know.”

James was not a church-goer, particularly, so that restriction had not caused him any personal inconvenience. He was aware of it, though. “I’ll make a pact with you, preacher. I won’t talk to the law about you, and you don’t talk about us.”

“A fair trade, sir.” The minister stuck out a large, rather puffy hand. “I am the Reverend Fairweather.”

Fairweather. The name struck a chord, and James searched his memory. It seemed he had heard Andrew and Michael speak of a minister by that name, a one-eyed preacher. “I’m James Lewis,” he said, waiting to see if the name meant anything to Fairweather. It did. The man studied James with one critical eye. “Yes, I can see the resemblance, now that I look for it. You would have two brothers by the names of Michael and Andrew.”

“You know them, then.”

“Our trails have crossed more than once. The first time, I fear, I was about the devil’s work. But the Lord did smite me hip and thigh and show me the error of my ways. We have since had better relations, your brothers and I. But they are farming out on the Colorado River. What are you doing in this part of the country, running contraband past the noses of the authorities?”