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.”
My baby! it’s good, Mister.