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his imprudent assault on Diablo’s hobbles, not to mention the miles of tracking Diablo and the woman. Only, sleep didn’t come. His blankets smelled of wild clover—of Mae.
    He awoke with a start just as the sky began to lighten, to the smell of fresh coffee and a hand like wrinkledleather shaking his shoulder. His gun left his holster before his eyes focused.
    “Whoooooa, Ord! It’s me ,” the old man chuckled. “Ain’t worth wasting the bullet.”
    “Don’t ever do that,” Trace growled.
    “You’d best hop to,” the old man urged. “You made it sound as if you wanted to be off by first light. Maybe we better shake a leg? I don’t like the looks of that sky. The air’s so thick you could cut it with a knife.”
    Trace accepted a tin of hot coffee, then took note Pappy had already packed up the rest of the camp. Maybe allowing him to tag along wouldn’t be so bad after all.
    Pappy pushed a plate at him. “Not much—just some leftover stew and a hard biscuit. Soak it in your coffee and it’ll soften it up. You need grub in your belly if’n you plan to catch up to your horse and your woman.”
    “The woman ain’t mine.” Trace picked up a fork. “And I’ve ate coffee-soaked biscuits more times than I care to remember. Daily diet for a Johnny Reb.”
    “Figured you for one, what with that accent.” Pappy studied him with a sharp eye. “Tough to place. Ain’t hard like Tennessee, nor heavy on the drawl like Mississippi. Planters stock, I’m a-guessing. Georgia or Alabamie.”
    Trace gave a faint nod, not really wanting to think about the past or why he’d come out West—to get away from all that had been taken or destroyed in his life. It was easier to forget when you weren’t reminded of the way things used to be.
    “Louisiana. Not far from Baton Rouge,” Trace admittedgrudgingly, hoping that Pappy would allow it to drop.
    “A renegade rider…Hmm, bet you rode for old Nathan Bedford Forrest during the war.” The old man’s brows lifted in challenge, daring him to deny it. “His boys could ride. ”
    Trace shook his head. “You know, Pappy, my mama used to tell me stories back from England and Ireland, where my family hailed from. She said hundreds of years ago they used to burn or hang people for being witches. You better be glad you were born now. You would have been dancin’ on the wind.”
    Pappy tossed sand onto the campfire to put it out. “ ’Tain’t nothin’ magic about it. I just watch. A lot of people are too busy flapping their jaws.”
    Trace chuckled. “Seems to me you do a fair amount of jaw-flapping yourself.”
    The old man shrugged and studied the pink and purple horizon toward the east. “Well, might just be me flapping my jaw now, but I fear a sandstorm might be kicking up. See how misty it looks back in the canyon? That ain’t good. We’d better make tracks, and pray that haze burns off when the sun comes up.”
    Trace hated to admit it, but the old man was right. Again.
    The haze did not burn off. The saffron sun rose, cloaked in a jaundiced gray veil draped like a pall over the entire canyon, and the air was thick despite the occasional gust that whistled through. It was like inhaling near a campfire.
    “Where’d you leave that marker?” the old man asked as they led their mules up the rocky draw.
    “Not much farther,” said Trace. “There’s a spring with a stand of cottonwood trees.”
    “Well, we might reach it too late. See that yellow fog rising from the canyon floor?”
    Trace nodded, taking his kerchief from his pocket to wipe his face.
    “That ain’t haze like before, that’s sand, and it’s coming our way. We’re going to need shelter here, pronto. Afraid your woman’s trail is going to get blown away.”
    Trace pulled his bandana up over his mouth and nose, hating that the old man was right. The storm seemed to hit them from everywhere, a hissing, howling whoosh of wind that sucked up the sand from beneath them and blasted the entire