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without coming across a stream.
    He drew his horse, Smoky, to a stop so suddenly that the pack mule behind them bumped into the gelding’s rump. The Sebastians. Everywhere those bastards went, they left a trail of blood. Matthew had no idea whom they’d killed this time, only that the remains lay somewhere nearby. Oh, yes. He knew without a doubt that the Sebastians were responsible. He’d been hot on their trail for several days, and the tracks had led him directly here. No mistake, no maybe to it. Wallace Sebastian rode a horse with a paddle gait that left a track as unique as a man’s fingerprint. Matthew would have recognized that odd stride pattern anywhere.
    Shifting in the saddle, he reached back to unfasten the strap that held his Winchester in the sheepskin rifle boot. At close range, he normally preferred to use his revolvers, but in rabbitbrush thicker than fleas on a hound’s back and billowing four feet tall, he’d be a damned fool to take on five fast guns with his Colts. Dancing and rolling to avoid a slug would be nigh onto impossible with his feet tangled in undergrowth. He’d be wiser to hit the dirt, burrow deep in the foliage, and pick off the brutes with his long barrel.
    Smoky snorted, clearly unnerved. Matthew stroked the gray’s neck and then nudged him back into a walk. The poor horse had to plow forward through the bushes, every step impeded by the thick snarl of branches. Herman, the mule, balked and let loose with one of his odd-sounding whinnies, a cross between a bray and a neigh. Damn it. There went any chance Matthew may have had to catch the gang by surprise. Not that he blamed the mule. Even the dumbest animals on earth recognized the smell of fresh blood, and Herman sensed the danger. All his instincts were probably telling him to turn tail and run.
    Grabbing hold of the lead rope, Matthew gave a sharp tug to get the pack animal moving again. As both beasts pressed forward, Matthew made a mental note to slap them on the rump if trouble started. Over the last three years, Smoky and Herman had become Matthew’s only friends. He didn’t want either of them to take a bullet.
    Moments later, they broke into a small clearing surrounded by stands of stunted oak and various bushes heavy with blossoms of pink, yellow, purplish blue, and white that stood out against the gray-green backdrop of brush. What appeared to be a peddler’s wagon was parked to one side of the opening, its garishly painted doors yawning to reveal a gutted interior. The team that had pulled the wagon to this spot was nowhere in sight, the poles and traces lying empty. Pots, pans, shoes, clothing, books, farm implements, and other wares had been scattered every which way across the rain-soaked ground. An old man in a brown suit lay sprawled amid the rubble. Even at a distance, Matthew could see that he was beyond help. The poor fellow’s throat had been slit, an Arkansas grin curving from one ear to the other under his bewhiskered chin.
    Matthew’s skin turned as pebbly as a fresh-plucked chicken’s. In the sunlight that had just broken through the clouds, the blood on the peddler’s neck glistened wet and bright red. He had been dead for only a few minutes. His killers couldn’t be very far away.
    Jerking the lead rope loose from his saddle to set the mule free, Matthew fanned the chambers of his Colts to make certain they were fully loaded—a purely reflexive gesture, because he always kept the chambers full—and then reined his horse in a circle to scan the surrounding brush. In land like this, the horned larks and prairie chickens normally chirped and flitted in the bushes, and small rodents scampered every which way. Not so in this place. A spooky hush lay over everything. The breeze had suddenly abated. Not even a leaf moved in the clumps of gnarly oak.
    Withers twitching, ears cocked forward, Smoky blew and sidestepped, his shod hooves sharply striking a partially buried slab of shale. The tattoo rang out