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temperatures and an achingly blue sky overhead. The weather might be bad farther south, but nobody here could say that.
    They passed the Panther City Saloon. Sally smiled at the sign and commented, “That’s an odd name.”
    â€œSome folks call Fort Worth Panther City because they used to say it was so sleepy the panthers would come in from the hills and doze in the middle of Main Street at high noon,” Smoke said with a smile of his own. “That all changed when the cattle drives started and there were hundreds of cowboys coming through here all the time, and then when the railroad arrived the place got even busier.”
    They stopped at a restaurant and lingered over a late breakfast that became lunch before they were finished. Smoke enjoyed a last cup of coffee, and as he did so he reflected that this was one of the most peaceful spells he had experienced in quite a while.
    That realization was enough to make his nerves tighten a bit. When things were too peaceful for too long, he began to worry. It always seemed like hell was saving itself up and sooner or later would break loose.
    They left the restaurant and walked on to Belknap Street, which followed a bluff overlooking the winding course of the Trinity River. The old army fort that had given the town its name had been erected here many years earlier. It was long since abandoned and gone, but the settlement that had grown up around it remained.
    The headquarters of the Cross Timbers Stage Line consisted of a building that housed the office, plus a barn and a large corral next to it. A Concord stagecoach, painted a faded red with yellow trim and brass fittings, was pulled up in front of the office with a six-horse team hitched to it. The canvas covering over the boot at the back of the coach was thrown to the side so a man could load baggage into it, including the bags belonging to Smoke and Sally. Several trunks were already on top of the stage, lashed in place by ropes attached to the brass rail that ran around the vehicle’s roof.
    A lanky, brown-haired man with a ragged mustache came out of the office and approached Smoke and Sally. He smiled and stuck out his hand as he said, “Mr. Jensen? I’m Jed Ferguson, the manager of the line.”
    Smoke shook hands and said, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ferguson. I reckon you got my wire booking passage to Mason?”
    â€œYes, sir, I sure did, and we’re mighty happy to have you traveling with us. The stage is almost loaded and ready to go. It’ll be pulling out in ten or fifteen minutes, I’d say.”
    â€œWe’ve heard that the weather is bad south of here,” Sally said. “Is that going to affect our trip?”
    â€œIt shouldn’t,” Ferguson said. “There are some low-water crossings along the route, but I haven’t heard anything about the streams being too high for a coach to get through. We have excellent drivers and the best teams that can be found. We’ll take good care of you, you have my word on that, Mrs. Jensen.”
    â€œHow long will it take to get there?” Smoke asked.
    â€œBarring any delays, you ought to roll into Mason late in the afternoon a couple of days from now. You’ll spend two nights at stops between here and there. The accommodations may not be exactly what you’re used to . . .”
    â€œThey’ll be fine,” Smoke said, smiling faintly as he recalled some of the nights he had spent sleeping on cold, hard ground, back in the days when he had followed the owlhoot trail. The accusations of him being an outlaw were unjust, but he’d had to live like one anyway. Sally had known her share of hardships, too.
    â€œWell, if you folks want to go ahead and get aboard,” Ferguson said, “we’ll finish up and be ready to roll.”
    Smoke opened the door on one side of the coach and helped Sally into the vehicle. He followed, settling himself on the forward-facing bench seat