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and I’m wondering if the outfit you’re talking abut might not be the same lot. I’d like to talk to Pete Rizner. Where can I find him?”
    â€œLikely at the Busted Flush saloon,” one of the men said. “His brother owns it. Good luck, kid.”
    The Busted Flush wasn’t doing a thriving business, and all the occupants watched as Danielle entered. She went immediately to the barkeep.
    â€œWhere can I find Pete Rizner?” she asked.
    â€œWho wants to know, and why?” asked the barkeep.
    â€œI’m Daniel Strange, and I’m after the bastards that killed my pa in Indian Territory a few months ago. I’d like to know if they’re still there, or if they’ve scattered.”
    A man slid his chair back and stood up, and when Danielle looked at him, he spoke.
    â€œI’m Rizner, kid. Take a seat, and I’ll tell you all I know.”
    Danielle drew back a chair and sat down at the table.
    â€œDrink?” Rizner asked.
    â€œNo, thanks,” said Danielle.
    â€œIt was gettin’ on toward dark,” Rizner said. “We seen these riders coming, and they all had their Winchesters out. There was eight of ’em, and I yelled for my pard to mount up and ride. I jumped on my horse and lit out, but my partner grabbed his Winchester and tried to stand ’em off. They rode him down, and he didn’t get a one of ’em. I’d swear on a Bible the lead rider was Rufe Gaddis. You know him?”
    â€œNo,” Danielle said, “I’m after the bunch that robbed and murdered my Pa. It looks as though it could be the same outfit. Where were you attacked?”
    â€œMaybe a hundred miles north of Dallas, not too far north of the Red,” said Rizner. “Ride careful, kid, and good luck.”
    Danielle didn’t bother with any more saloons. From the information she had received, it seemed almost a certainty that the outlaws she was seeking had never left Indian Territory, or had soon returned. Danielle prepared to ride out at first light. Unless there had been rain in the Territory recently, there still might be tracks.
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    Indian Territory. August 1, 1870. 3
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    Weary after more than three hundred miles, Danielle was looking for a stream by which she might spend the night when she came upon a grisly scene that made her blood run cold. There was a scattering of human bones, and a skull that still had its hair. There were the ripped, shredded remains of a man’s clothing. The leg bones from the knees down were still shrouded in run-over, knee-length boots. There were tracks in abundance, and they all led south. Sundown, the chestnut mare, snorted, not liking this place of death. It was too late to follow the trail with darkness, but a few minutes away and far to the west, golden fingers of lightning galloped across the horizon. Danielle mounted and rode south, following the trail as long as she could see. There would be rain before dawn, and the trail would be washed out. Danielle made her camp on the north bank of Red River, wondering why the outlaws had suddenly returned to Texas after the killing.
    She covered herself with her slicker for some protection against the expected rain, which started about midnight. There was no dry wood for a fire, which was just as well, for the smoke would have announced her presence. Breakfast was a handful of jerked beef, and through a drizzling rain, she crossed the Red River into Texas. She had ridden three or four miles when a voice suddenly spoke from a nearby thicket.
    â€œYou’re covered. Rein up and identify yourself.”
    Danielle reined up, carefully keeping her hands on her saddle horn.
    A young man stepped out with a Winchester, and he looked no older than Danielle.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” he asked.
    â€œI’m Daniel Strange,” said Danielle, “and I’m no outlaw or killer. Last April my pa was robbed and killed in Indian Territory, and I’m