Chapter Three The Northern Waste

On the frontier, such people were worse than wolves. They played lost migrants or suffering families until travelers lowered their guard. Then shotguns and rope took horses, money, boots, and sometimes lives. Jack meant to avoid them. But they had water. He touched his canteen. Two swallows left. Avoiding them might mean dying on the road tomorrow. He spoke softly to Old Bill. "Looks like we do business tonight." Jack hung the Winchester at his saddle and let himself look exhausted. He led the horse from the scrub with empty hands raised. The gray-coated man near the fire looked up at once. "Friend?" he called. "If you're selling water," Jack answered.