The three wagons huddled together in a tight clump; herded into a group behind them, the unhitched horses milled nervously. Wesley sat still stroking Dammit's neck, watching as one of the men aimed a rifle in his direction. He held his hand out to his side and removed his hat, waving it in, what he hoped, was a friendly gesture. A faint white puff appeared from the rifle, followed quickly by a spurt of earth that exploded up about five yards to his left. Dammit whinnied and began stepping sideways, causing Wesley to cram his hat back on and steady the frightened animal. He walked the horse a few feet closer and called as loud as he could to the wagons. "Don't shoot! My name's Wesley Torrance. I'm a homesteader from the Golden Sky Valley. I just want to talk to you folks."

He could see several people moving about and forming a group, their arms animated in discussion. After a moment, the rifleman stood up on the wagon seat and hollered back. "Leave all your guns right where you are and come in slowly. One bad move an' I'll send you an' yer horse straight to hell!"

"You heard the man, Dammit, no funny moves." He made a show of unbuckling his gun belt and dropping it on the ground. Next he withdrew his rifle and dropped it alongside, holding his hands high above his head.

"Alright now. Slowly!" The voice carried across the distance in a flat, dead command.

Wesley could see three other men hiding in the wagons; rifles aimed directly at him. Behind them, a group of women and children huddled near the horses. When he was about twenty feet away, the man who shouted jumped down and walked carefully toward him, his rifle twitching nervously in his hands.

"Git on down an' keep them hands high."

Wesley did as he was told, and wearing as friendly a smile as he could muster, turned to face the man. "My name's Wesley Torrance, out of Golden Sky. I shore would appreciate you lowerin' that rifle, I only mean to ask some questions if you folks would oblige, an' maybe get some water for my horse."

The man stood still, staring hard at Wesley, then a violent trembling ran right from his boots up to his neck, and he dropped the muzzle of the gun into the dirt and sagged to his knees. Instinctively, Wesley stepped forward then stopped dead, hands stretched high, as another man and a woman raced forward to the shaking man. "Is he alright? I didn't do nothin', honest."

The woman looked up at him; wisps of greying hair veiled her face from beneath a dusty bandana. "It ain't you mister." She stared hard for a moment, the man with her holding his gun at Wesley. "I reckon we'll have to believe you say who you are, so . . . help me get him back to the wagons." Wesley nodded to the other man and stepped forward, helping the shaking man to his feet and supporting him back to the wagon with the woman's help. Dammit plodded along agreeably behind, letting the second man take the reins.

Two hours later, with the smoke from the cooking fire stretching straight up into the windless night sky, Wesley squatted at the back of one of the wagons, listening to the group's nightmarish tale as it was related by Megan DeHoyt, the wife of the rifleman. He cast his eyes about the gathered families, reading the mixture of hate and pure fear on their fire-lit faces. Megan DeHoyt spooned another mouthful of hot soup into her husband's mouth, dabbing his forehead at the same time with a damp cloth. Megan had spoken quietly and deliberately, telling the story right from when the stranger first appeared. He and their scout, Gershwin Tate, had ridden on ahead to a cluster of low hills, to find a suitable night stop. Tate had told Dunstan to rest the wagons until he got back, and they had followed his orders. About two hours later, the stranger had come galloping back with the news that Tate had taken a bad fall with his horse and needed help. Rather than get everybody moving in the dark, Dunstan had hitched up his team and he and his wife Margaret had followed the stranger. It wasn't until sunrise the next morning that one of the children spotted Margaret Dunstan stumbling back toward the wagons, her clothes and her face all torn and bloodied. Wesley had felt sick when Megan pulled back the tarp and showed him the vacant eyed, moaning, Margaret Dunstan, her face a mass of cuts and bruises and her tongue bitten half off. They were unable to get anything from her and were too terrified to go on without their leader or scout.

Wesley sat with clenched fists and teeth. He could certainly understand their hostile reaction when he showed up.

"Everything's alright Karl," Megan soothed, "Mister Torrance seems to be what he claims. I've told him what happened . . ." She set the soup down and helped her husband into a more comfortable sitting position. "The strain of worry has taken its toll." She looked apologetically at Wesley.

"Sorry about the greeting Mister Torrance." Karl's voice was dry and weak.

"Don't blame ya one bit, from what your wife has told me. An' I can understand your still bein' suspicious, but you folks gotta know you cain't just stay out here forever." A hum of light murmuring erupted from the group.

"What if that feller is out there jest waitin' fer us?" A stocky man with a bushy, tobacco stained beard piped up.

Wesley looked around the circle of frightened faces. "There's a lot more of us than there is of him."

"Us?"

"If nobody objects, I'd ride a ways with you. I'm pretty good with a gun, 'sides, ridin' out there alone doesn't give me the best of feelin's." He turned to see Megan struggling to make her husband comfortable, and he leaned across to help. Briefly, their hands came together and they blushed in unison.

The stocky man stepped forward, leaning on the stock of his shotgun. "What do you say Karl? We could wait here for another party to come along and join up with them."

"Not me!" The younger man, who had come with Megan when her husband collapsed, stepped out of the group, brushing his wife's arm away. "Who knows when anyone else might come along. Dunstan had both the water barrels on his wagon. We barely got enough as it is without sittin' here like- like-" He waved his arm in exasperation. "I say we move on and let Torrance here ride with us."

Karl pulled himself shakily to his feet, patting his wife's arm in assurance that he was fine. "Seems like we been forgetting just what we all came out here for." His eyes passed warmly over the rapt faces around him. "Mister Torrance is right. We can't just go on sittin' here. There's folks waitin' for the stuff we still have in these wagons, and a man can't turn his back on folks what need him." He turned and extended his hand to Wesley. "Be honoured to have you ride along Mister Torrance . . . and we'd sure appreciate the extra gun." His face suddenly dropped and turned to his wife. "Megan! His guns. We—"

"It's okay Karl- Mister DeHoyt. That little feller over there with the nasty lookin' wooden gun pointed at me, went and fetched them earlier. If you can get him to holster that thing, I'd be obliged to have them back." Everybody turned and relaxed, laughing at the small boy with the hand carved wooden pistol trained on Wesley.

"It's okay Mathew, you can put away your gun and give Mister Torrance his back. He's a new friend."