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Indians, and he never did bother going back for Ryan’s hair.
    That was fine by Ned, though . He had something far better in the sheriff’s mare. Despite the bitter-cold grayness that had crept over the hill while he’d been inside with Judge Cameron, Ned grinned at the thought of riding here on the stolen horse. The judge would have wanted to hang him for stupidity, but Hamby had fond memories of the animal from the last time he’d taken her. A more willing, spirited horse he’d never ridden before or since.
    Yesterday, he’d nearly had to kill Hop to reclaim the chestnut mare.
    “I shot the bastard. I get his horse. It ain’t right if you take her.”  Hop tapped his pistol’s grip for emphasis.
    The youngest of Ned’s gang, Hop was barely old enough to shave . He hadn’t grown into his spindly legs yet, making him look more insect-like than human. The bulging, gray eyes emphasized the effect and had the others calling him Grasshopper within days. But the men were short-cutters by nature, so he soon became Hop. Hamby couldn’t even remember his real name.
    “This horse was mine before . She’s mine now.”  Ned grabbed the mare’s reins, causing her to toss her head back. “You ask these other fellas. Ain’t this Ginger?”
    The other two examined her white star and the rim of white above her far back hoof . Both agreed she was the same horse he’d called Ginger, before the sheriff reclaimed her in Copper Ridge.
    “That ain’t right,” Hop insisted . His voice dropped to a fair imitation of a man’s, as if to remind them all he’d packed a lot of bloodshed into his brief years. “I earned her.”
    “She’s already mine . But tell you what. You can have old Ark here instead, for bringing her back to her rightful owner.”
    Hop spat on the half-frozen ground and glared at Hamby’s fleabag roan gelding . “Hell, Ark’s ugly as homemade sin, and he kicks like a Missouri mule. He damn near busted your leg last month out nea r ”
    Ned used the horse’s reins to whip Hop’s face . The kid grabbed for his pistol, but by then it was too late. Hamby hadn’t made it to twenty-six by being a slow draw. The mare, now loose, trotted away until the brush fence of the Indian sheep pen blocked her progress.
    Ned watched two stripes redden Hop’s left cheek where the leather reins had bitten . The boy stared down the barrel of Ned’s drawn revolver, his eyes wide with his shock. It took only a moment for his astonishment to harden into something sullen, something that promised trouble in the not-too-distant future.
    But there was always trouble waiting, biding its time in Black Eagle’s hostile stare or Pete’s surly remarks . The kind of trouble that eventually caught up with a man if he didn’t know when to back away and cut his losses.
    Just as Ned was going to, soon as he ran off those Navajo and maybe killed some woman for the judge . At the thought, he licked his lips. A white woman, Cameron told him. He hoped she had a pretty scalp.
    Grinning in anticipation, he swung up on the mare’s back and thought how anybody might ride a horse this fine . Could be a banker’s horse, a lawyer’s even. When he showed up back home riding Ginger, folks would look up from their business and say, Ned Hamby’s done all right . His ma might even smile. She’d probably bust her jaw grinning when she heard the bright clink of Cameron’s gold inside his pockets.
    He patted the horse’s sleek, red-brown neck and nudged her into a smooth trot . As the first, fat snowflakes swirled past, he resolved to brush the muck and blood spots from his Ginger every day, to keep her looking fine.
     
     
     
    Cañon del Sangre de Cristo
    March 23, 1884
     
    At first, Anna had been glad of Quinn Ryan’s long silence . His unconsciousness made it far easier to treat him. But more than two days had passed since he had spoken, and although his breathing sounded easier, she began to doubt he ever would again.
    The hen squawked