"Was that you, knocked on the window?" Wesley looked around quickly and aimed his gun toward the marshal. When Tyrone didn't answer, he went and stood beside him, peering into the bedroom.

A brilliant flash of lightening suddenly lit the room, and Wesley uttered a horrified moan as his legs gave out and he sagged down the wall to the floor.

"One thing's certain Mister Torrance. You sure ain't the man I've been lookin' for." Tyrone spoke calmly as he came out of the bedroom and stood beside Wesley, seated at the table, his head buried in his arms. The dark room seemed to shudder eerily from the crashes of thunder and the heavy splat of rain on the roof. "This hombre's one mean, sick, son-of-a-bitch." Tyrone spoke, into the awkward silence.

Wesley pulled his head up and stared, red eyed at the young marshal. "How could- what kind of animal . . . " He sagged back in the chair, staring at his hands.

Striking a match to light one of the oil lamps, Tyrone considered the defeated looking man at the table. "All that blood that's soaked into the bed sheets, I figure he shot her up there after raping her." Wesley choked aloud, pounding his fists on the table and burying his head against them again.

"My guess is, she wasn't here alone, so we better look outside. You fetch the horses and I'll check out the barn." He walked around the table and placed an encouraging hand on Wesley's shoulder. "C'mon Mister Torrance, sittin' here don't get us any closer to findin' him."

Wesley gathered himself to his feet and staggered to the door, yanking on his hat and pulling his mud-slicked poncho up around his neck. Stumbling across the slippery cornfield, his mind was a whorl of ghastly images— his family, Dunstan and the scout, and now this poor woman. God give me the strength to find this beast and put him down, he prayed to himself, untying the two drenched horses and leading them through the muck to the barn.

Tyrone had thrown old horse blankets over the three bodies but even with the harsh smell of the wet hay, Wesley could still detect a coppery scent of blood. What had changed, was his sudden indifference to the mayhem around him. Over the past week, he'd seen enough gore and havoc that the three covered corpses suddenly affected him very little. They unsaddled the horses and fixed them up with some feed, then built a small fire just inside the doors to dry their clothes.

"The most he can be ahead of us is two days. Probably less. That fire in the house was well banked and it still had some life left." Tyrone shook out his poncho and rolled it up, stuffing into the bedroll on his saddle. "There's no way to track him now, with the rain an' all, but I'll wager he's headed right for Buffalo Stump."

Wesley busied himself scraping mud from his poncho and trousers, cursing to himself over the slimy slick mess it left. "You think he'll stay there long enough for us to catch up?"

"My read is that this mongrel don't give two hoots for anything. He finds a town with whiskey and women, he'll be happy to stay put. Besides, if he ran into this storm further up, he's probably holed up somewheres 'till it passes."

"But what about the sheriff? Whatsisname, Bragg, won't he stop him if he shows?"

"Sheriff Bragg's a good man an' a sound sheriff, but I don't see him goin' against this fella— leastwise, not alone"

"You're fixin' to help him then, right?" Wesley finished stowing his poncho on the horse and took a gulp from his canteen.

"That's my job Mister Torrance. Might as well get comfortable, we're probably here for the night now."

Wesley dug some coffee out of his saddlebag, filled his mug with rainwater, and set it to brew on the small fire. "You got a mug? You want some of this?"

Tyrone shook him off, settling down and setting his hat on his knee. "This'll do me." He opened his canteen and took a long thirsty swallow of the contents.

Both men woke as the first steamy light of dawn entered the barn. A thick mist hovered near the sodden ground making everything outside appear to float. They pulled on their dry clothes, saddled the horses and scattered the ashes of the dead fire. Tyrone led his horse to the doors and peered out. "It's quit. Gonna be a hot sticky ride. We best get goin' now."

"But what about—"

Tyrone swung up into his saddle, gazing up to catch the light dusting of mist on his face. "These folks are past carin'. We'll send the town undertaker out to clean up." He squeezed his knees together and pulled his horse around, setting off at a brisk trot.

"C'mon Dammit," Wesley said aloud, mounting the horse, "we'll go along to get along."

*****

Cable smiled at his reflection in the little mirror over the washstand. In the eight weeks since he broke out of Bentonville, his beard had grown into a full-faced curl of reddish grey hairs. Now, with a pair of scissors he salvaged from the Dunstan's wagon, he set about to sculpt it into something cleaner and neater looking. Probing the spongy hole where his tooth had been, he began trimming away his thick moustache, noticing with amused surprise, the hardened strands of dried blood.

Cable had arrived in Buffalo Stump around dinnertime, finding the streets mostly empty and the saloon kicking into high gear. With the cash from the wagon train strong box and the meager poke he'd lifted from the woman and her son, he'd boldly entered the Dobbs Hotel and paid for a good room on the third floor.

Upon arriving in town, Cable had paused to study the sketch of the wanted man, posted on the wall of the livery stable. The clean-shaven, shorthaired image in the picture, no more resembled him than fifty other men he could think of now. With his full beard, longer hair, and a sun browned complexion that had erased his prison pallor, he dismissed it with a snort.

Arthur Powser had agreeably accepted the cash in advance for boarding Mister Benton's Appaloosa. More often than not, high country riders could barely afford feed, let alone his full-service livery. The fella seemed pleasant enough, and they'd chatted about the county's current events, finishing with Arthur's recommendation of the Dobbs Hotel for accommodation.

Cable splashed water from the basin onto his face and, with the complimentary bar of soap, scrubbed his newly trimmed beard briskly. He toweled himself dry and gazed again into the mirror, gingerly touching the still angry looking cuts on his cheek where the wood splinters had struck him. Gershwin Tate's trousers fit him perfectly, and with a clean white shirt and vest from the Dunstan wagon, he watched his reflection buckle on the twin, bone-handled revolvers, also compliments of Mister Tate.

Well now, Valentine, he greeted himself, lookin' very good. Time to check out the town, get some grub, a drink and then . . . he waved the mirror goodbye with a lecherous grin, grabbed his hat and left the room.

Orin looked up in puzzled surprise at the new version of the scruffy guest who'd checked in a few hours earlier. Cable tossed his key on the desk and asked about a place to get a good meal, receiving the Hang 'Em High as the best recommendation. He gave the stunned looking clerk a pleasant smile, touched his hat, and strode out the door with all the confidence of a full house over a pair.