The wind off the Sangre de Cristo range tasted of frost and old woodsmoke. It whistled low through the pines, rattling the dry pinecones against the cedar shake of the cabin roof like a nervous hand testing a latch.
Clara stood motionless by the south window, her breath fogging the small square of wavy glass until she wiped it clean with the hem of her apron. The trail down to Red Canyon lay pale and empty in the moonlight, a winding ribbon of white stone cut between black jagged limestone bluffs. He was late. Matthew was never late when the creek was running low and the horses were sound.
Behind her, the iron stove popped, spitting a spark that hissed against the scrubbed pine floor. She did not turn. A mile down the valley, past the burnt-out homestead where the Miller family had tried to farm rock in sixty-eight, something moved. It was not the loping gait of a wolf or the broad plod of a range steer. It was the hurried, uneven gallop of a horse driven hard against the scree.
She pulled the walnut-stocked Winchester from the deer-antler pegs above the mantle without looking at it. Her fingers found the lever, checked the cartridge in the chamber with a thumb press she had practiced until it made no sound, and settled the stock beneath her elbow.
The rider cleared the creek ford at a reckless plunge. Water silvered in the moonbeams, then scattered into darkness.
"Clara!"
The voice broke on the cold air, hoarse and ragged. It was not Matthew. It was young Jesse, who kept the livery down at the stage junction. His gelding was lathered from flank to brisket, steam pouring from its nostrils like a boiler on grade.
"Clara! Bar the shutters! They found the buckboard at the narrows—they're coming behind us!"