Chapter 70

In the early afternoon, shortly before picking up the wagon track, I reined in at the sound of gunshots. Rifle fire. I was halfway to the Mead, which put me about twenty-five miles from Yanube City. Wasn’t someone hunting—too sustained. The stage way station was the only thing in the area, so I kicked arrow into a lope and emerged through the thin line of trees on the north bank of the river.

Gunfire had died away, but smoke rode a breeze about a mile to my east. A few minutes later, I stood on the north side of the river and looked across at the burning way station. Four riders hazed the relief team of horses out of the corral and headed south for the mountains. Without thinking I jerked my rifle from the scabbard and drew a bead on the closest rider. It was an improbable shot, but I lifted the barrel slightly to give him a lead and squeezed the trigger. A long moment later, he pitched from the saddle and rolled in the grass. The others kept riding for the Little Islands.