Dawn took the yard by inches. Coal smoke hung low. Frost showed thin on the rails where the sun had not reached. Men moved quiet, faces pale in that early light, hands working buckles and cinches without talk.

Ashford walked the line with his hat pulled low. He touched a strap here, a stirrup there, his voice steady and plain. Cass kept a few paces behind, eyes moving from horse to hand to the set of a man’s shoulders. Rios waited at the head with his sorrel standing easy, the bit shining where he had wiped it clean. When Ashford gave the nod, Rios turned west and the herd started with him, hooves knocking a slow rhythm against frozen ground that softened as the morning breathed.

They cleared the last switch and the noise of Kansas City fell behind. The air lost the taste of coal and took on dry grass and river damp. Calves bawled then settled then settled after a time. The cook’s wagon creaked along the rear with the coffee pot thudding against a hook.

Eli rode the near flank. He watched the dust roll off the lead and kept the swing cattle from pressing too hard. The ground showed all it wanted a man to know if he looked. Fresh shoe marks cut along the river road where it ran near the trail. Two sets, close together, riding smart. The edges were still sharp and the clay had not dried. Eli studied the lay of them. Hoof prints often carried their own distinct appearance. He’d keep these in mind. He let the thought come and go. 

“Probably nothing,” he said under his breath. “But noted.”

He raised a hand to Caleb and tipped his chin toward the marks. Caleb looked once and returned to his work without a word. No sense turning the day sour on what might be no more than travelers keeping their own pace.

A rumor walked the herd same as dust. Someone said Macklin Pierce left town at midnight with two riders and a pack mule. Someone else said he bought a ticket north and never looked back. Ashford did not pass such talk along. He set watches and kept the line straight. That was his answer to most things.

Toward midmorning the sun warmed the cattle’s backs. The pace found itself. Rios lifted the lead a little to stretch them on the grade and the bawling eased to a steady breath. Eli settled in, eyes on the rim and the low ground both, letting the country tell its piece as the trail took them out of sight of the city.

—•—

By noon the air had turned mild enough to bring the flies. Dust rose from the herd in a low haze that caught sunlight like smoke. Ahead, the land dipped toward a line of cottonwoods marking the Blue River. The water ran shallow this time of year, slow and brown, but the banks were soft and narrow enough to bog a wagon if a man wasn’t watching.

Ashford rode forward with Cass to study the crossing. They spoke few words, their talk carried by gesture, the angle of a hand, the turn of a horse. Cass rode through first, letting the sorrel pick its footing. Water splashed halfway to his stirrup. “Sound bottom,” he called back.

Ashford nodded once. “Rios, take the lead pair through. Keep them straight. Warren, hold the near flank till half the herd’s across.”

Eli eased his mount a little higher on the bank, watching for the first sign of panic in the lead steers. They balked once, then followed Rios through, hooves thudding in rhythm to the dull rush of current. The smell of mud and water rose thick as stew.

While the last wagons waited their turn, Eli kept his eyes on the opposite shore. The far bank rose shallow, shaded under cottonwoods, with a stretch of tall grass flattened in one place near the ridge. He couldn’t see more from where he sat, but the look of it held purpose, like ground where horses had milled or waited. He filed the thought away and eased his horse down the slope.

When his turn came to cross, the water ran cool over the gelding’s knees. The smell of mud and silt thickened as they climbed out the far side. Only then did he see the rest: the bent grass where hooves had stood, weeds pressed clean, a bit of pale ash caught in the roots near a sycamore. He dismounted, touched the ground, and found the deep, sharp impressions of fresh shoes still holding moisture. Whoever had been there hadn’t left long before.

When he remounted, Caleb was looking back from midstream. “Something?” he called.

“Sign,” Eli answered. “Fresh. Two riders at least.”

Caleb’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t press. The herd needed pushing more than guessing.

Eli turned his horse and brought the swing cattle down the slope. The bank gave once under weight, then held. Water splashed high against the flanks of the lead steers, and they grunted as they climbed the far side. The herd found rhythm and crossed clean.

By the time the wagon rolled through last, the prints on the far bank were half trampled by hooves. Whatever watchers had been there were ghosts now, their sign fading in the wet clay. Eli took one last look at the slope where the grass still leaned flat, then rejoined the line as it swung northwest toward open ground.

The river slid behind them, wide and brown, carrying its small secrets downstream.

—•—

The land beyond the Blue opened wide and rolled in low humps of grass and clay. The herd spread easily now, moving steadily with the sun behind them. Wagon wheels creaked in rhythm with the bawl of cattle, and the air carried the smell of dust, sweat, and leather.

By late day they reached a shallow draw rimmed with willow and scrub pine. The water there was thin but clean, enough to see them through the night. Ashford picked a rise above the draw for camp, ground high enough to watch the valley for well over a mile in all directions.

The cook’s wagon settled first, and the clang of his pots marked the close of travel. Men unrolled bedrolls, unsaddled horses, and hung bridles from low limbs. The herd drifted to graze in the open field, a soft, living murmur against the wind.

Ashford called the hands together while the light still held. “Three men per watch, two-hour turns. I want eyes on the herd and on the ridges both.”

Cass read out the first line from the ledger, then closed it with a firm hand. “Keep it quiet out there. No pipes, no fires off the ring.”

When the circle broke, Eli carried his rifle and bedroll to the edge of camp where the grass gave way to stone. The sky went deep blue, and the first star shone sharp above the horizon. Caleb joined him with two cups of coffee and a nod.

“Clear country,” he said. “You can see a mile easily.”

“That cuts both ways,” Eli answered. He sipped the coffee. “What’s seen works both ways too.”

Caleb looked toward the distant ridges, the light fading from them slowly. “You think those riders from the crossing are still close?”

Eli shrugged. “Maybe. Hard to say with a man who knows how to wait.”

They stood quietly after that. The wind carried the low sound of cattle, the ring of the cook’s ladle against iron, and the faint rustle of men settling to sleep.

Near midnight the herd shifted once, the kind of motion that moves through stock like a whisper. Eli rose, rifle in hand, and moved along the edge of the camp. The moon had climbed, white and cold, showing the ground in long lines of shadow.

He moved slowly, quietly, until he reached the far rim above the draw. There he saw it, a flicker of coal light in the grass beyond the ridge. Too small for a camp, too still for an accident. It glowed once and died, the ember drawn and pinched out. Maybe someone lighting a cigarette. Maybe a pipe. Hard to tell at that distance.

Eli crouched and waited, eyes fixed on the dark. Nothing followed. No movement, no sound but the wind in the grass. After a time he eased back toward camp, careful not to wake the men.

When Ashford came up at dawn, Eli told him what he’d seen.

Ashford listened, his face unreadable. “Could’ve been a stray hand from town, or someone keeping measure,” he said at last. “We’ll tighten the watch. No alarm unless they press us.”

He looked toward the west where the trail rose into the hills. “If someone’s riding our shadow, they’ll show themselves soon enough.”

Eli nodded. “Then we’ll be ready.”

Ashford gave him a long look, then turned toward the herd. “See that it stays quiet. We don’t want the men getting jumpy over speculation.”

The morning broke pale and cold. Coffee boiled over the fire, and the herd began to stir. Eli watched the ridges as the first light touched them, but whatever had flamed up in the grass the night before wasn’t evident this morning.

—•—

The sun climbed slow but steady, burning the chill out of the grass. The herd moved early, lowing as they were turned onto the trail. The air smelled of wet hide and dust warming under hooves. Ashford rode ahead with Cass, laying the line toward the hills.

By midday they reached the narrow cut locals called Dry Fork. The place was a gash between two low ridges, one side rock and scrub, the other steep dirt that caught every bit of runoff. The herd funneled in, seven hundred head packed close, their hooves echoing off the walls like drums in a canyon.

Eli took the near flank. The ground there held firm for the first hundred yards, then sloped to a rail fence that guided the cattle along the inside bend. A few steers shied at the echo of their own noise but found rhythm again under Rios’s voice. The drive looked sound until a crack split the noise, a sharp splintering pop followed by the shout of a hand down the line.

The rail gave way, snapping from its post. Dust billowed. Cattle surged toward the gap in a wave of horns and heaving muscle. Eli drove his bay hard into the breach, cutting the near flank across the opening. Caleb swung wide on the far side, pushing the leaders back against the wall. Rios was already in the wash, hat whipping in his hand, turning the point animals before panic could find its hold.

For a long half minute the world filled with sound, wood breaking, men shouting, hooves hammering the hardpan. Then the surge broke. The herd steadied, breathing rough but moving again, slow and uncertain.

Eli swung down and looked at the rail. The break was clean, too clean for rot or wear. He crouched, ran his fingers along the edge, and found the cut smooth and sharp. A fresh slice. Not a week’s weather on it.

Ashford came up with Cass close behind, both men silent until they saw the rail.

“Cut,” Cass said quietly.

Ashford nodded once. “No mistake about it.”

They stood a moment, each man weighing what it meant.

Rios rode up, his horse lathered and blowing. “Could’ve killed a dozen men easy,” he said.

Ashford turned to Eli. “You saw it go?”

“Didn’t see it. I only heard it break.”

Ashford looked at the herd, then back to the ridge where dust still hung in thin veils. “We patch it and move on. We’ll make camp early. Just over the ridge, in the bottom is a strong stream. We’ll use that tonight. I want men on watch to report anyone they see. They may be nothing of concern to us, but I want to know if there’s anyone about.”

Cass spat in the dirt and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “If this is the pair that’s been shadowing us, they’re getting bold.”

“Or careless,” Eli said.

Ashford’s eyes lifted toward the ridges. “Careless gets a man seen.”

He left it there, walking back to the line to steady the next section of fence. The sun dropped another hand toward the west, its light thick through the dust. The herd began to move again, slow and uneasy, the echo of the near stampede still alive in the air.

Eli tightened his cinch and fell back into position. The day stretched ahead, but every man on the drive felt the edge of something close, watching, and waiting its turn.

—•—

They reached the stream before sundown. The water ran clear and cold between banks lined with willow and wild sage. Ashford picked a flat stretch for camp where the ground was firm and the grass short enough to bed the herd.

Rios and Caleb eased the cattle down toward the water, giving them time to drink before night settled in. The herd spread in a slow fan across the bottom, heads low, tails swatting lazily at flies. Eli and two others rode the edges, keeping them tight enough to count but not crowded.

The cook’s wagon stood near the edge of camp, its lantern swinging faintly. The smell of beans and salt pork drifted through the air. Men spoke quietly as they ate, voices carrying no farther than the light of the coals.

Ashford made his rounds after supper, checking horses, gear, and men. He stopped beside Eli at the outer edge where the first of the watch mounts waited. “You’ll take second guard,” he said. “Keep them steady. No yelling, no fire. Just ride slow and talk to them if they stir.”

Eli nodded. “We’ll keep it quiet.”

Ashford looked toward the ridge beyond the stream, his eyes narrowing. “I’d rather have quiet than be surprised by someone using our noise to mask their approach.”

By full dark the herd had settled. The sound of hooves shifting in the grass mixed with the slow trickle of the stream and the soft murmur of men turning in. The first watch took to saddle, moving in slow circles around the herd, humming low to keep them calm.

Eli woke to the touch of a boot against his heel. “Your turn,” a voice said softly. He rose, pulled on his hat, and swung into the saddle. The night had cooled, stars hard above the ridge, the air carrying the faint smell of dust and iron from the herd.

He rode slowly, quietly, keeping to the edge of the bedded cattle. Their bodies formed a wide, dark sea that breathed and shifted with small, steady sounds. Every few minutes he spoke low, words without meaning, just the sound of a man’s voice to let them know he was there.

An hour passed that way before something caught his eye on the far ridge, a quick flick of movement against the starlight. He stopped, listening. Nothing. Then another motion, slower, harder to place.

He turned his horse uphill, guiding it by the lay of the ground. The sound came again, faint and dry, like leather brushing stone. He dismounted and led the gelding forward, step by step, until he reached a line of scattered rock above the draw.

There he saw it, a faint red glow on the ridge across the valley. Maybe a small camp. It pulsed once and went dark. Maybe someone starting a cooking fire. Hard to tell at that distance.

Eli stayed still a long while, waiting for another sign. The ridge gave nothing back. The night kept its quiet.

He led the horse down slow and made a full circle around the herd before returning to camp. The stars were beginning to fade when he passed the coals.

Ashford was already awake, coffee in hand. He looked up when Eli stopped.

“Something?”

“Could be. Glow on the ridge again. Same as before.”

Ashford nodded once. “They’re still there, then.” He poured another cup and handed it over. “We’ll stay ahead of them for now. If they press closer, we’ll turn to meet them.”

Eli took the coffee and looked toward the pale line of dawn rising over the hills. “They’ll show themselves soon enough.”

Ashford’s gaze followed his. “And when they do, they’ll find out we’ve been watching back.”

—•—

Morning came clear and windless. The sky held a hard blue edge that promised heat before noon. Ashford was already mounted when Eli stepped from the line of horses. The herd stood restless in the grass, tails flicking, heads lifting toward the ridge as if they sensed the change before the men did.

“Cass and Rios will take the point,” Ashford said. “We’ll leave the main trail and cut north through the breaks. It’s slower, but the country gives us cover from the ridges. No sense riding where we can be counted from a mile off.”

The men nodded without question. Saddles were cinched, coffee finished, and gear loaded with quiet efficiency. The cook packed his pots and hitched his team. When the wagon rolled out, the sound of its wheels on stone seemed loud as gunfire in the still air.

Eli took rear flank. From that position he could see the whole column: the cattle in their loose flow, the riders at their posts, the dust hanging behind them like smoke. Caleb rode the drag beside him, chewing a sliver of grass. “You think they’ll follow into those cuts?”

“If they’re still there, they will,” Eli said. “But it’s rough country. They’ll have to show themselves sooner or later.”

By midday the open plain broke into folds of red clay and stone. Mesquite thickened along the draws, and the path narrowed to a single track twisting between outcrops. Every turn gave them new ground to read. Hoofprints from the herd pressed deep into the dust, but no other sign showed yet.

Ashford halted the drive long enough to water the horses at a seep that trickled from the rock. He rode back to where Eli waited and pointed with his chin toward a stand of cedar along the ridge. “Take a look up there before we move again. If someone’s watching, that’s where they’d sit.”

Eli climbed the slope, rifle in hand, the gelding tied below. The wind was light, carrying the smell of hot resin from the cedar. At the top he found a shelf of rock that looked down on the trail they’d come from. He crouched low and scanned the horizon.

For a while, nothing moved. Then, far off where the plain widened again, a pair of riders appeared, small as dust motes against the light. They moved slow, keeping distance, but they were there, one leading, the other following his line exact.

Eli watched until they dipped into a hollow and vanished. Then he made his way down.

Ashford met him halfway. “They still with us?”

“Far off, but yes. Two of them. They’re taking care not to be seen.”

Ashford’s jaw worked a moment, thinking. “All right. We’ll keep north until the ridge turns, then camp in the trees. They’ll have to come close if they want to keep the trail. That’ll be our chance to see what kind of men they are.”

Eli gave a short nod. “And if they don’t come close?”

Ashford looked toward the hills. “Then they’re waiting for something bigger than us.”

The herd started forward again, the line bending north into country cut by shadow and stone. The sound of the cattle faded into the wind until all that remained was the steady creak of saddle leather and the dry rasp of dust under hoof.

Somewhere behind them, just out of sight, two riders followed the same road, patient as ghosts.

—•—

They made camp in the cedar draw before sunset. The ground sloped gently toward a shallow creek that wound through sand and stone. The trees closed in thick enough to hide the herd from the open ridges, and the light that filtered through the branches turned the air green and dim.

Ashford ordered half the men to graze the cattle along the flats while the rest cut grass for the horses. The camp took shape with practiced rhythm: wagons in the hollow, fires built small, gear laid out in neat rows. No talk carried beyond a few yards.

Eli and Caleb worked near the herd until the shadows stretched long. Then Ashford came down the line, his tone low but clear. “We’ll run double watch tonight. No lamps. No smoke. Anyone moves outside the circle without word from me gets called first, shot second.”

Caleb gave a dry smile. “Comforting thought before supper.”

Ashford looked at him without humor. “It’s meant to be.” He moved on, checking the next post.

When the last light left the draw, Eli took his place along the outer edge. The night came cold, the sky framed by the dark points of cedar. The herd shifted now and then, their breathing slow, their hooves stirring dry earth.

The moon rose late, thin and white. Around midnight, a sound reached him, distant and muffled, like iron striking stone. Then another, closer, a single hoof slipping in loose shale. Eli’s hand found the rifle across his knees. He waited.

The noise came again, faint but sure, working its way down the slope above them. Whoever was there moved carefully, pausing between steps, the kind of movement a man makes when he knows the ground can give him away.

Eli rose slowly and quietly, and touched Caleb’s shoulder. Caleb woke without a word, eyes clear in the dark. Eli pointed up the ridge. Caleb nodded once and eased off toward the wagon to fetch Ashford.

Eli watched the slope. The sound stopped. Then, just for an instant, he caught a shape, a man on horseback outlined against the pale sky. The horse shifted, hooves clinking on rock. A second rider followed close behind, both holding still as shadows.

Ashford appeared beside Eli, rifle ready. He said nothing, only looked where Eli pointed. Together they waited.

The riders stayed motionless for a long time, silent and still against the ridgeline. Then, without warning, they turned and melted back over the rise.

Ashford’s voice was barely above a breath. “You were right. Two of them.”

Eli nodded. “Been watching since the crossing.”

Ashford’s jaw tightened. “Let them. Tomorrow, we find out what they want.”

He turned back toward camp. The night held its silence again, but Eli kept his eyes on the ridge until the stars began to pale.

When dawn came, Ashford sent him up to look. The ground where the riders had stood was churned and scuffed, the shale broken where hooves had slipped. In the clay between the stones he found the marks of two horses, one heavier, one light and narrow-gaited. The ashes of a small fire were scattered by the wind, the earth beneath still faintly warm.

Eli studied the sign a long while before heading back down the slope.

“They camped here,” he said when he reached Ashford. “Watched through the night, then rode out before sunup.”

Ashford listened without reply, his eyes on the ridge beyond. “They’re keeping distance for a reason,” he said at last. “We’ll find out what it is soon enough.”

—•—

By midmorning the herd had strung out across open ground, the trail bending between low hills spotted with sage and stone. The air was still, the kind that carried sound far. Every man felt the weight of it.

Ashford rode near the point, his eyes sweeping the ridges. “Keep them moving,” he told Cass. Then to Eli, “If they’re coming, it’ll be here. No cover, no escape once they break the line.”

Eli nodded and dropped back toward the flank. He loosened the Winchester in its scabbard and checked the cinch. The gelding’s ears twitched toward the north.

It began with dust: a thin column rising beyond the ridge. Then two riders appeared, cutting downslope at a trot that quickened as they saw the herd. Sun caught the metal at one man’s belt.

Ashford’s voice cut through the wind. “Hold your line!”

The column closed fast. Eli swung wide to intercept, putting himself between the herd and the riders. He raised his rifle, but the lead man reined up short, hand raised. The second stopped beside him, both winded from the run.

Ashford galloped up, rifle across his saddle. “You’ve been following us since the crossing. Speak your business.”

The lead rider, a narrow-faced man with a dark coat and trail dust to his collar, looked from Ashford to Eli and back again. “Didn’t mean trouble. We’ve been looking for a drive bound west. Lost our outfit near the Washita. Thought you might be the one.”

Eli watched him close. “You don’t tail a herd three days just to ask for work.”

The man hesitated. His partner shifted in the saddle, uneasy.

Ashford’s tone stayed flat. “Say what you mean.”

The narrow-faced man’s jaw worked. “There’s been talk downriver. Two riders, one gray-haired, one young, asking after this herd. Offered coin for knowing where it was bound.”

Ashford’s gaze hardened. “And you aim to collect it.”

“Not anymore,” the man said quickly. “Not after last night. We just want clear ground between us.”

Eli’s rifle stayed steady. “Then ride. If we see you again, we won’t ask twice.”

The men wheeled their mounts and climbed the far ridge without looking back. Dust trailed behind them like smoke.

Ashford sat a moment, watching them go. “They weren’t lying,” he said quietly. “Someone’s paying to know where this herd ends up.”

Eli looked toward the west, the line of the trail fading into heat and haze. “Then whoever it is already knows we’re coming.”

Ashford drew a slow breath. “All right, then. We’ll keep the herd close and the rifles closer.”

The wind rose, carrying the low rumble of hooves across the plain. The drive moved on, steady and silent, every man watching the horizon.