Then Perch entered complaining about mud on the floor.
The moment vanished.
Again.
They found four additional riders.
None ideal.
Ben Coyle was fifty and drank when bored.
Lou intended to keep him too exhausted for boredom.
Caleb Marsh was nineteen and had worked sheep, which every cattleman treated as a moral defect.
He rode well.
That mattered more.
Tomás Álvarez was a quiet twenty-seven-year-old vaquero who had recently lost work when a neighboring ranch sold.
He wanted better wages.
Lou could not provide them.
Emmett convinced him with a promise of half the Winnemucca delivery bonus.
Lou discovered that promise after it had been made.
“You offered my money?”
“Our money if we finish.”
“There is no our money.”
“Then I offered yours.”
She stared.
Emmett smiled.
The fourth rider was absurd.
Perch.
“You cannot ride.”
“I can sit.”
“You can barely walk.”
“Horses don’t require me to.”
Lou threatened.
Argued.
Begged.
Perch climbed onto a wagon seat.
He would manage camp and remuda rather than ride the herd.
Roy, shoulder still wrapped, insisted on coming in the wagon.
Lou refused.
Roy packed anyway.
At dawn two days later, Bitter Brush moved.
Four hundred and three cattle.
Seven saddle horses.
Nine remuda horses.
One supply wagon.
Six effective riders if Lou counted herself.
Five if she counted honestly.
Ash had already started.
But not by much.
The first forty miles went better than expected.
The herd settled.
Tomás proved excellent.
Caleb listened.
Ben complained constantly but worked harder than he complained.
Emmett seemed capable of appearing wherever trouble formed before anyone called him.
Lou led mornings.
Emmett controlled the rear.
At night they met over Perch’s maps.
Ash’s dust occasionally appeared on distant ridges.
Never close enough to reach.
Always close enough to remind them.
On the fourth evening, Lou found Emmett examining tracks away from camp.
“What?”
He stood.
“Nothing.”
“You don’t stare at nothing that seriously.”
“Two riders.”
“Ours?”
“No.”
“Circle P?”
“Probably.”
Her stomach tightened.
“What were they doing?”
“Watching.”
“Why?”
“Maybe Ash likes scenery.”
Lou looked at him.
“Anything you want to tell me?”
Emmett hesitated.
The hesitation mattered.
“You know him.”
“Everyone knows Ash.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
He looked toward camp.
Lou stepped closer.
“Emmett.”
His jaw tightened.
“I worked Circle P.”
Silence.
The desert seemed to change around them.
“When?”
“Six years ago.”
“For how long?”
“Eight months.”
Lou stared.
“You never thought to mention that?”
“I planned to.”
“When? After Winnemucca?”
“No.”
“After he bought you?”
Emmett’s expression hardened.
“He didn’t buy me.”
“You didn’t tell me about the foreman offer either.”
“I refused it.”
“How would I know?”
“Ask me.”
“I shouldn’t have to drag every important truth out of you.”
Emmett looked down.
That landed.
Lou continued.
“Why did you leave Circle P?”
He was silent.
Her anger sharpened.
“Was that outfit number five?”
“No.”
“Six?”
“Before those.”
“Why?”
“Ash wanted me to move brands.”