1873

A vaquero crouches in the dry brush.  He carefully lays his hat on the ground and raises his head.  The camp is quiet.  A smoldering fire.  A saddle outside a simple lean-to.  A horse stirs with a sleepy snort and a nicker.

The cowboy reaches for the hat.  It’s gone.  A knife streaks across his neck.

Jeff Waring squats down and watches.  After a while, the thrashing and gurgling slows and then stops.  Waring reaches over dripping twigs, the puddling blood and grabs a handful of shirt.  He yanks the dead man upright.

He’s not one of Arango’s men.  He’s an independent operator.  Probably just a horse thief.

The earth devours the blood.  Relief flows over him.  Waring looks at the camp.  It’s a peaceful scene.  The baby starts to cry and he smiles.

“My baby.”

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