"Ash Morgan! You son of a polecat! What are you doin' up this way?" the buckskin-clad trader demanded as he ducked his head to enter the cabin. "And not alone, I see." He snatched off a shapeless hat decorated with a beaded hatband and an eagle feather. "Evenin' ma'am."

She blushed. "How do you do, Mr…Mr…"

"Jacob will do, ma'am. Proud to make your acquaintance." He leaned a Hawkin rifle against the wall and took Ash's hand. "Good to see you, son."

"And you, Jacob," Ash replied. "This is Tamsin MacGreggor. We had a run-in with a Cheyenne war party a few days back and came by to take advantage of your hospitality."

"Did ye, now? I heard some bunch of young bucks was liftin' hair around here. Glad it wasn't yours."

"Or yours," Ash said. "Is your lady with you?"

"Land 'o mercy, no. Had to haul her south to visit her people. She's in the family way, and nothin' would do but what I take her to her mother until the mite gets here. To tell the truth, son, I'm thinkin' of movin' my whole operation south. Utes gone, Cheyenne turned hateful, and white folks got no patience with an old-timer like me."

"Hungry?" Ash asked him. "We've got some stew and biscuits left." Ash glanced back at Tamsin. "You may as well go back to sleep. If I know Jacob, he'll have me up until dawn talking."

"I just might have a bite," Jacob agreed. "Nothin' like a bowl of hot stew, a little Taos lightning, and good company."

"I'm sure this is your bed," Tamsin said. "I can-"

"No." Jacob scratched his beard. "I can sleep when you folks have rid on. Me and Ash haven't swapped stories in what-nigh on to a year?"

"At least." Ash pushed the kettle over the coals and stirred the pot with a long-handled iron spoon. "I should offer congratulations on being a father."

Jacob grinned and settled cross-legged on the floor. He pulled off his high moccasins and warmed his feet at the fire. "Had to marry her, all legal like. Times are changin', boy. Used to be a man could do what he wanted in these mountains, long as he watched his back. No more. Civilized folk movin' in. It will be tough enough on that mite of mine, being half-Indian, without being born on the wrong side of the blanket."

"She deserves marriage, to put up with you," Ash said.

"Yep, yep, that she does." The mountain man took a long-stemmed pipe and tamped it full of tobacco, then lit it and took a long, slow puff. "Talked to a mule skinner, south of here. He claimed his partner was shot and two horses stolen last Wednesday. Says he saw five gunhands. Described one of the shooters as Texas Jack Cannon down to the gray horse and fancy boots."

"How did he say he lived to tell of it?"

"Claims he was in the woods, taking a crap, when he heard the shootin'. Crept up, seen the odds, and laid low." Jacob grimaced. "Can't vouch for the mule skinner. Never seed him afore. He might of got drunk and killed his partner hisself. But I remember you had a special dislikin' for Jack."

"I was thinking of riding down to Leon Cannon's place. Is he still alive, do you know?"

"Haven't heard of him dead. 'Course, him being Jack's uncle, Leon ain't got too many friends in these hills. It ain't like he has neighbors in for Sunday dinner."

"I wanted to take a look at the house and see if Jack was layin' low there, but-"

"But you didn't want to drag Miss Tamsin into a beehive?"

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "Drag me where?"

"Nothing," Ash said. "Go to sleep." Actually, he'd been planning to take her to Leon's cabin and use her as bait. Now he'd changed his mind. If she was lying about Jack, he didn't want to know it. "Will you be here for a few days, Jacob?"

"Want to leave the little lady in my care while you have a look-see?"

"No one's leaving me anywhere!"

Ash dipped stew into a clean bowl and handed it to Jacob. "She will be trouble, I promise you. She's as tricky as a Mississippi gambler. Turn your back on her and she'd hit you over the head with a chunk of wood."

"You lying weasel!" Tamsin cried. "If you leave me here, I won't be here when you get back."

"I'll tend her for you, boy, but if she murders me, you owe me a Christian burial." Jacob took another puff on the pipe and grinned. "And digging a grave in these rocks ain't a chore to be sneezed at."

Thirty miles of hard riding brought Ash to a ridge overlooking a two-story log house and a ramshackle barn. Years before the war, Texas Jack's uncle, Leon Cannon, had built this place.

The word was that Jack, Vernon, and Boone had been raised near San Antonio by an aunt and uncle after Comanches wiped out the rest of the family. Leon came to Colorado after he'd stolen so many of his neighbors' cattle that they banded together and set a price on his head.

The place didn't look lived in to Ash. Maybe Leon was dead or had moved on. The cabin roof had patches on it and the barn leaned heavily to one side, but the corral looked in good shape. If Jack Cannon had a home this side of hell, Leon's old place was it to Ash's way of thinking.

Ash had hoped that Jack and his boys might be hiding out here after all the excitement they'd caused in Nebraska. But it seemed Ash had had a long ride for nothing. No smoke came from the chimney, and the weeds around the back door were waist high.

He'd been careful not to leave fresh signs of his own. He'd crept near enough to water Shiloh and fill a canteen from the spring a few hundred yards behind the house. Then he'd climbed up on the roof and covered the chimney hole with sticks and boards. Finally, he'd backtracked, hidden his horse in a gully, and climbed up here to this overlook to consider whether he'd guessed wrong again.

If Jack Cannon wasn't here, he could be anywhere from Kansas City to Mexico. He'd hoped for a little luck. Finding the outlaw, capturing or killing him, would have made explaining to Tamsin why he'd left her at Jacob's cabin a lot easier.

He was sure that she'd be safe with Jacob until he could get back to her. Whether she'd understand why he had to ride off on a hunch was something else. He'd chased Cannon so long that he wondered sometimes what his life would consist of once he caught him.

And he would find Jack. It was just a matter of time. Which of them killed the other one would be the toss of a coin. The outlaw was a crack shot, and he was smart. Ash only hoped he was smarter.

Ash stretched his legs and rubbed at the healing bullet wound. Dusk had fallen. Far off to the west a coyote howled at the moon. Other than crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl, it was as quiet as a Quaker funeral.

His belly rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since noon. There was bread and dried meat in one of his saddlebags, but going down to where Shiloh was tied would mean leaving his lookout, and he wasn't ready to chance that yet.

He took a sip of warm water from his canteen. It tasted tinny, but it was wet. Most folks thought that a bounty hunter's life was exciting, one chase after another. Truth was, a lot of what he'd done these past years was to sit and wait. It developed a man's patience.

Tonight that quality would be put to the test.

"Patience, Boone," Jack Cannon advised his older brother. "You'll never get ahead if you don't learn that. We don't want to be the first ones in. The vault may not be open yet." He tipped his hat to an elderly woman walking by. "Morning, ma'am."

"I don't like standin' around, is all," Boone replied, tugging at his starched shirt collar. "And I don't like wearin' these fancy duds."

"Clothes make the gentleman. You walk in the Goldsborough Trust in dirty work clothes and scuffed boots and already they're suspicious. What's an owlhoot like that doin' in our bank? Maybe he's up to no good."