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agile, a champion in the young men’s footrace at preparatory academy not so many months before.
    Perhaps this business of the wagon leaving was just another of the muleteer’s pranks, but an uneasy feeling had niggled Rand for a time now. With the arrival of the scar-faced man and his two companions, the business inside Brown Horne Drigger’s outpost had turned distasteful enough that Rand had excused himself to walk to the creek. He was more than happy to leave the stench of the rough cabin store behind. He’d had no idea of how long Ira’s dealings here would carry on, but he hadn’t minded it either. There were things to see, and Rand had dried beef in his field pack, should he gain an appetite before they made evening camp nearby. Wandering along the creek, he’d enjoyed both the solitude and the discovery.
    Now he feared that his original impressions as to the potential of homemade liquor, illegal activities, and immoral men were correct. The muleteer was clearly in a hurry, the team’s hooves sliding and the steel-rimmed wheels bouncing over the stones and watersheds in the rush downhill.
    As Rand cleared the brush and made the wagon road, the lead mule, Curly, spooked and balked, testing the traces and struggling to stop the inertia of the wagon.
    “Bleedin’ fool!” Ira managed the reins and the wagon brake, finally bringing the load to rest just after Rand leapt to the side of the path to avoid being run down. “You’ll send us both edge-over. How many times I gotta tell you not ta be runnin’ out, spookin’ my mules?”
    “I heard the wagon moving,” Rand gasped, somewhat winded.
    “Git on your saddle horse, boy. We’re leavin’ out.” Ira cast an impatient nod over his shoulder.
    “Leaving?” Puddinhead, the mount Rand had purchased after disembarking the new rail line in Murphy, was tied behind the wagon, walleyed at the end of the lead line, as usual. Puddinhead’s name was as much an incongruity as the Murphy liveryman’s assurance that the gelding was a competent mountain horse. In reality, the animal feared most of what he saw and intensely disliked the rest. “I thought we’d planned to camp overnight nearby Drigger’s outpost.” Not that Rand was looking forward to more time in the company of Brown Horne Drigger and Pegleg Molly, but he had intended to study the surrounding area thoroughly while he waited.
    “They’s bad business afoot here. Don’t need none of it.” Ira was nervous   —more so than Rand had ever seen him. “Man’s gonna survive in hither parts, he’s gotta know when to git his mud hooks a-movin’. Gotta know not to wander off too. You’s s’posed to be down to the crick crossin’. Lucky you ain’t been left fer bear bait. I ain’t yer nursemaid, boy.”
    The crack of a rifle shot echoed from the direction of Brown Drigger’s cabin, the sound rushing through the trees and startling birds to flight. Rand whirled toward the noise as Ira stood against the reins, holding the mules from bolting. Behind the wagon, Puddinhead scrambled up the hillside, staggering over loose rock and sapling hickories.
    “Never mind the horse. He’s tied on good.” Ira swiveled, casting a wide-eyed look. “Clamber on up in the wagon, boy. Less’n you’re a-gonna stay here. Take yer choice. This rig and me are leavin’ out. Now!”
    In two quick steps, Rand grabbed the side rail, planted a boot on the wheel, and swung himself upward. The rim rolled before his foot left it, and he landed in a tangle, bouncing upside down and sideways on the canvas that covered Ira’s trade goods.
    The wagon was splashing through the creek by the time Rand had righted himself and crawled to the seat. Behind, Puddinhead rose on hind legs, testing the lead, blowing and snorting as if he fully expected the water to rise up and swallow him whole. The gelding jumped, stiff kneed, landed in the stream, and jumped again, raising an infernal ruckus as he went.
    “Git’up, Curly! Git’up,