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ago and far away, and time had dulled the pain of finding her crawling to the cabin, an arrow in her breast. She had gasped her last breath and died in his arms, and he had buried her beside his father. He sought out Running Horse and killed him with the arrow he had pulled from the breast of his beloved. Running Horse had feared Shining Star would give sons to the mountain man, and he would be shamed because he had none.
    Lucas rode out of the mountains but returned as often as possible. He could make his way there from any part of the West. The years had not been kind to the cabin, but beneath the tree beside the stream the wildflowers he had planted grew in riotous profusions.
    He thought about it now. It would be spring in the mountains. The air would be fresh and cool. He would go back. He would always go back and keep going back from wherever the trails over the years would take him.
    The only man who knew anything about that part of his life was Lone Buck Garrett. Buck had wrestled
with him when he was a boy, had hunted with him, had trekked back to the Big Pineys with him and his father, had been with them when they visited the graves of his mother and sisters.
    Now, Buck Garrett, lying in his bedroll a dozen steps away, wondered at his friend’s restlessness. He had been surprised to see Lucas walk out from the wagons with the redheaded woman. Later, when he came to his bedroll, he seemed to have things on his mind, so Buck didn’t speak out. Buck was not a talkative man. He had never addressed a group of over five people in his life. His quietness had nothing to do with being shy; he simply didn’t have much he wanted to say. He was a realist. He had never held the grand illusions about the country that other men held. He expected to work hard and live hard, and, in time, to settle down. But where? When? With whom? He hadn’t settled these questions in his mind yet. Only one thing was sure. This was his last trip to Texas. He longed for the cool mountains of his boyhood and the cabin beside the stream, where William Steele was buried and where Lucas had laid Shining Star to rest.
    Buck was tired of a life among people who held you at arm’s length, accepted you on sufferance because you had a good eye for tracking and a fast gun. He was twenty-five years old, and he had not yet found his place. He was not white because he had Indian blood. He was not Indian because he had white blood. Resentment smoldered in him when he remembered not being asked to stand guard like other men because the whites didn’t trust him. Yet he
actually had more white blood than Indian. Lone Buck, he had become. Lone Buck, scout, hunter, and hired gun. Only Lucas knew who he was. Only for Lucas would he have signed on to take these white women to California.

Four
    “H’yaw! Hee-yaw!” Lottie shouted at the team as she cracked the whip over their backs. The wagon began to move.
    The camp had been stirring since an hour before daylight when Mustang had banged on the iron pot and hollered, “Come ’n git it!” While Tucker had helped Lottie hitch up the team, Laura had taken up the sleeping mattresses and arranged the bedding so they would have room to sit during the day and a place to dress. This would be their place, their home, their sanctuary until they reached California. Lucas Steele had been up and down the line, talking, advising, directing since the camp was astir. He’d tipped his broad-brimmed hat in answer to Tucker’s nod, said something pleasant to Laura, and passed on.
    Several riders were now in the trail ahead, some beside the train, and a few were leading strings of mules, obviously replacements for the mules hitched to the wagons. Nothing was said about Tucker leading a string, so she climbed up on the seat beside Lottie and Laura.

    The train moved out at a fast pace. They were third in line behind the grub wagon. Tucker leaned out and looked back at the curve of wagons following. The canvas tops glowed white