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cooking utensils while the men began harnessing their teams. McQuade spoke to Ike Peyton.

    â€œI’ll wait until the wagons are lined out, on the trail, Ike, and then I’ll ride back to St. Louis. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
    Ike nodded. When his teams were harnessed, and the Warnell wagon was ready, the two of them led out. The others rumbled into place behind them, and the train was on its way. McQuade, leading the pack horse, set out the way they had come. He wasn’t in the least surprised to find that Hook’s outfit hadn’t broken camp. There wasn’t a sign of a breakfast fire, nor was there anybody on watch. The wagons had traveled a little more than fifteen miles, and with his horses at a slow gallop, McQuade was soon there. Lacking a packsaddle, he had the supplies loaded into large burlap sacks. He was able to balance all four of them by tying their necks together in pairs, allowing each pair to straddle the horse in a manner that was comfortable for the animal. Leaving the mercantile, counting his money, he found that he had a little more than fifty dollars. With Mary Flanagan on his mind, he reined up before a particular store that he had passed on his way to the mercantile. Looping the reins of his horse about the hitch rail, he went inside. He quickly found what he was seeking in a glass display case on the counter.
    â€œGood morning, sir,” said the clerk. “Do you know the lady’s size?”
    â€œNo,” McQuade said, “and I have only fifty dollars.”
    â€œThis one is fifty-dollars,” said the clerk, “and I have some less expensive ones.”
    â€œThe fifty-dollar one,” McQuade said. “I’ll gamble on the size. Make it a large one.”
    McQuade left the store with only some change in his pocket, but in his saddlebag was a little white box with a gold band. In the wilds of south central Texas, such things would be out of the question. Now that he had taken this expensive, and perhaps useless, step, he was beset with doubt. He knew Mary Flanagan liked him, but suppose it never went beyond that? Suppose old Miles Flanagan did
an about-face, deciding he didn’t approve of Chance McQuade, after all?
    McQuade rode on, lost in his thoughts, and before he knew it, the moving wagons were in sight. Rufus Hook’s wagons. McQuade could swing wide, avoiding them, but there was a stubborn streak in him that wouldn’t allow him to dodge Rufus Hook. He continued, and by the time he reached the wagons, someone had alerted Hook of his coming. Pulling his wagon out of formation, Hook waited, Lora Kirby beside him. McQuade reined up.
    â€œWhere the hell have you been, McQuade? Fine wagon boss you are.”
    â€œI rode back to get some grub for me and the Flanagans,” said McQuade. “I got the wagons on the trail before I left, and they’re somewhere ahead of you.”
    â€œI’m well aware of that. Why didn’t you wait for us?”
    â€œWe roll at first light, with or without you,” McQuade said. “Your choice.”
    Without another word, Chance McQuade rode away.

CHAPTER 2

    M cQuade found that his wagons had made good time, and were a good five miles or more ahead of the Rufus Hook wagons. McQuade trotted his horses alongside Ike Peyton’s wagon until the train stopped to rest the teams.
    â€œI’ll split this up among some of the other wagons,” McQuade said, “if you don’t have room for it.”
    â€œI got room,” said Ike. “We didn’t have much that was worth bringin’ with us.”
    Many of the other men had gathered, obviously expecting some word of Rufus Hook’s position. McQuade didn’t disappoint them.
    â€œHook’s maybe five miles behind us,” McQuade said. “I told him if he aims to travel with us, we move out at first light.”
    There was shouting and applause, with grins on many faces. Keeping his saloon