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it, for the sharing further drew the families together. When Miles Flanagan had eaten, he went from one group of families to the other, spending some time with them all. Everybody seemed to enjoy the closeness, except some of the single men. The Burkes had their own fire, refusing to participate. It was well after dark before they heard the rattle of wagons and the jingle of harness, marking the arrival of Rufus Hook’s wagons.

    â€œI reckon the saloon will be openin’ late tonight,” said Ike Peyton.
    â€œYeah,” Will Haymes said, “and closin’ earlier.”
    It brought a round of laughter, for they all knew what Ike and Will meant. While they could do nothing about Hook’s saloon, they could continue taking the trail at first light, leaving Hook and his late-night outfit behind. McQuade had already assigned the first watch, and some of the women had taken to their blankets, when the stillness of the night was shattered by a rollicking refrain from Hook’s piano.
    â€œDamn it,” Ike Peyton grumbled, “I used to like the piano.”
    â€œThere’s hot coffee on the coals,” said Maggie, “if you need it.”
    â€œI need it,” McQuade said, and went to fill his cup. There was no moon, and he saw a shadowy form on the seat of the Flanagan wagon. When he drew near it, he spoke softly.
    â€œMary?”
    â€œHere,” she replied.
    â€œWould you like some coffee?” he asked.
    â€œYes, please.”
    He reached the Peyton wagon, and without a word, Maggie handed him a cup. Quickly he filled it from the coffee pot, returned to the Flanagan wagon, and passed the cup to the girl. He then climbed up on the box beside her.
    Ike Peyton laughed. “He don’t waste no time, does he?”
    â€œNo,” said Maggie, “and he shouldn’t. She’s a good girl, and she needs somebody like Chance McQuade.”
    For a while McQuade said nothing, content to sit there beside Mary Flanagan. When he did speak, he pleased her more than he knew.
    â€œI’m glad you pitched in with the supper. Not that they couldn’t have managed, but I want you to have friends, to become one of these folks.”

    â€œI’m already one of them,” she said. “I discovered that tonight, when I was made to feel welcome.”
    She set the tin cup down, leaned her head on his shoulder, and he discovered she was weeping softly. It was a while before she trusted herself to speak again.
    â€œIt … means a lot to me, but … did you see my father? Do you know what he said to me, before he turned in for the night?”
    â€œWhat?” McQuade asked, interested.
    â€œHe said, ‘Daughter, I don’t need Rufus Hook to build me a church. I’ve found it.’”
    â€œI can believe that,” said McQuade. “Some of the best preaching I’ve ever heard, was when all I had over my head was trees and sky.”
    It was a pleasant interlude. But then came the roar of a Sharps .50, in the direction of the Hook camp. There was a distant scream, and the piano jangled to silence.
    â€œDear Lord,” said Mary, “what’s happened now?”
    â€œI don’t know,” McQuade said, “but I have an idea we soon will. Wait here, and I’ll be back. They may try to suck us into this.”
    McQuade joined a dozen other men who stood looking toward the lights of the distant Hood wagons. Nobody said anything, and after the time it would have taken a man to saddle a horse, they heard riders coming. His Sharps in the crook of his arm, McQuade made his way through the circled wagons until he stood in the open. While he had given no order, he sensed the men behind him. Three riders loomed up in the darkness.
    â€œThat’ll be far enough,” said McQuade. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
    â€œThis is Rufus Hook,” a grim voice replied, “and you got some answering to