“Put gun down.”
She did not.
“Lady, you don’t want trouble.”
“I think trouble already came.”
The second rider appeared.
A younger hired hand.
Rifle across saddle.
The woman calculated.
Two.
She could perhaps shoot one before the other.
Maybe.
Her horse stood ten yards away.
No cover except larch and creek bank.
The foreman took one step.
The woman fired.
Not at him.
At snow near horse’s front legs.
The horse reared.
The foreman cursed and grabbed reins.
The younger rider’s horse startled too.
The woman seized box, ran downhill, and slid behind creek bank.
A shot cracked.
Snow exploded above her.
She ran.
Another shot.
She reached her mare.
Threw box into saddlebag.
Mounted.
The foreman shouted.
She kicked mare.
The mountain trail became blur.
Branches struck shoulders.
Snow sprayed.
She heard riders behind.
The creek forked.
Lower path left.
Home right.
The woman chose left.
Not home.
She would not lead them directly.
The lower creek trail narrowed through rocks.
Her mare knew ground.
Their heavier ranch horses did not.
She gained distance.
At one bend, she dismounted briefly and slapped mare forward alone.
Then climbed rocky slope on foot.
The pursuing riders thundered past following tracks.
She waited.
Breathing hard.
Then circled through trees toward cabin by old trapper path.
It took two hours.
By the time she reached home on foot, the cowboy was standing in doorway using bedpost rail as makeshift cane.
His face went white when he saw her without horse.
“What happened?”
“Inside.”
He reached.
She pushed him back.
“Inside.”
They barred door.
She dropped iron box on table.
“Foreman found me.”
The cowboy’s face hardened.
“How many?”
“Two.”
“They follow?”
“I sent horse down lower creek.”
“They may.”
The cowboy looked toward window.
“We have to leave.”
“Where?”
“Town.”
“Six miles.”
“Too open.”
“Then north cabin?”
“Abandoned.”
“No food.”
The woman looked at iron box.
“What’s in here can end this.”
“If we reach someone who can use it.”
“Sheriff?”
The cowboy shook head.
“Your county deputy signed one payment.”
The woman stared.
“Marshal?”
“Territorial land agent in Helena.”
“That’s days.”
“U.S. marshal has deputy in Fort Benton.”
“Also days.”
She looked toward snow.
“We won’t get there tonight.”
“No.”
A silence.
Then cowboy said:
“There’s another way.”
“What?”
“Telegraph.”
“Nearest station?”
“Town freight office.”
The woman frowned.