Cable doffed his hat once more, bowing his head slightly to Dunstan's wife, and trotted off after Tate. The twin ruts of the trail wobbled across the valley floor; the grass flattened and worn away by the dozens of families that had gone before, seeking new beginnings and prosperity. Cable unslung his canteen and took a long swig of the tepid water, reaching back to offer Tate a drink. He noticed that the scout was keeping his position just slightly back and off to the side by more than a man's length. Tate gave a curt shake of his head, the bushy black moustache hiding the grim line of his mouth.

Cable closed his canteen and draped it over the pommel, slouching back and rolling with his horse's gait. "You wouldn't be Gershwin Tate would you, sir?" He liked the sir; it gave his question a deferential, humble quality.

"Who's askin'?"

"Lordy, I've heard tales about the great Gershwin Tate. The injun wars, the buffalo hunts. You're a legend, sir. Name's Val Benton, short for Valentine. My old momma had me on Valentine's Day, she did. Sure am lucky I wasn't born on Easter. Can you imagine goin' through life with a name like Easter?" Tate seemed to relax a little, his pale blue eyes, reading the profile of the other man.

"I know plenty who'd trade you for Valentine. Seems like mommas and names can git a little crazy some times." His eyes roved over the saddlebags, bedroll and tack, recognizing certain features from his. "You bin in the military?"

Cable forced his expression to stay neutral while he quickly considered his reply. Tate was no fool, and his questions experience with the army weren't idle. "Nope. Closest I come was when I traded a bust up ol' mule and a weeks hard work for this outfit." He slapped the horse on the neck and looked over, smiling. "Met an old soldier, retired to farmin' up in the Sky Valley, helped him build fences and a shed for his sorry cows. Got me this horse and tack in exchange for that and my mule." Cable stretched his eyes sideways trying to gage Tate's reaction. "He even threw in this Colt and holster."

"Musta bin some fancy buildin' you done for a man to give away all that." Tate had moved a little further away again, and the following pause was filled by the creak of wagon wheels and snuffling horses pounding the hard ground with their steady tread.

"Well it weren't easy. Did most of the work myself cause o' his bum hip. He pretty much give up ridin' anyways, said the mule would serve him better, 'sides, he mostly used a carbine and an' old shotgun. Said there weren't much use for a pistol on the farm."

Tate seemed to ignore the reply, gazing off to watch the last of the sun dip sedately behind a strip of purple hills. "Back in a minute." He said, turning his horse and galloping back to the lead wagon.

Cable turned and watched him go, considering the effectiveness of his story. A wagon train like this, carrying supplies, was an opportunity heaven sent— not to mention the pretty filly hitched to ol' Dunstan. He grinned to himself, and turned back staring calmly at the trail as it twisted away into the shadows of nightfall.

******

Ethan Bragg sat spinning one of the cartridge casings on his battered desktop, his thoughts a mixture of concern and annoyance, as Horace rambled on about his day's duties as deputy sheriff.

"Ever seen initials like this?" He said, tossing the casing to Horace, more to stop his ranting than discover anything of value.

The deputy turned the shell in his fingers and read aloud. "PBP, hmmm. You know, I think I have." He looked at Bragg with a mysterious nod.

"Yeah? And where would that be Horace."

"In Danby, when I worked at Hartsfield's General store and Emporium. Sold a double action to a feller that worked for the government. Didn't want no ammunition, said he got his from his company's stores. Showed me a box full o' shells, all marked like this one."

Bragg stood slowly, leaning his big knuckles on the desktop. "What company?"

"Can't rightly recall. Somethin' about transportin' prisoners." Horace tossed the shell up and down in his hand, nodding.

"Prisoners." The word came out flat and soft. Bragg rounded the desk, grabbed his hat from the hook by the door and hurried out of the office. A clear sun beat down on the main street, turning the muddy puddles to tacky goo that clung to the soles of his shiny boots as he strode toward the telegraph office. Harvey Kinsdale peered over the top of his paper as Bragg crashed through the door noisily, slamming it behind him.

"Somthin' bite you Ethan?" Harvey was a scrawny, leathery looking old coot with tufts of white hair poking out the sides of his cap. Somewhere in his seventies now, he'd held the job as postmaster for the last thirty odd years, ever since retiring from the railroad back east. He folded his newspaper carefully and levered himself out of his chair, tugging at the bottom of his vest and checking his gold railroad watch.

"I want to send a fast message to Danby, to the governor, Harvey. Gimme a pencil." Bragg snatched a piece of paper from the tray and began scribbling his message. "Send this, and tell 'em I want an immediate reply." He slid the note across the counter to the postmaster, fidgeting, as the old man traced every word with a bent finger, moving his lips silently. "Today Harvey, okay?"

The postmaster tweaked his droopy moustache and gave Bragg a stern look over the top of his glasses. "Hurry, hurry, everybody wants to hurry. Cain't get no faster than the telegraph Ethan. Man's gonna turn to butter, he keeps rushin' through life."

Bragg waved a dismissing hand and pointed to the note. "Just send it Harvey. I'll be at the mayor's office waitin' the reply." He slammed out the door and stomped back across the street to the mayor's office in the Dobbs Hotel.

"Afternoon sheriff, kin I help ya." The nervous desk clerk tapped his pen on the counter and shot a glance up the stairs.

"Just goin' to see Mayor Greeves, Orin, thank you."