The stench of the livery assaulted Teven as he walked into the main stable—horse shit, urine, sweat, and hay. Within the large wooden building, the burly livery master welcomed him. Teven thumbed over his shoulder. “Apologies for the interruption.”

“Oh, no bother, those Katz boys are always on the shoot. The Terrys favor them I think. Big figures they are, the Terry Family.”

Teven nodded, handing several bills to the man. The livery master eyed the greenbacks and shrugged. “Terry family means to see betterments ‘round here. Don’t see how, nothin’ but desert all ‘round. Still, the Katz, they’re just a bunch of b’hoys.” He counted the greenbacks. “Your brother will stay here with the horses?”

Teven nodded. As a self-board livery, Christian remained at the corral tending to the spare horses. “Yes. We’re only here till noon.”

The livery master waved with his handful of bills as Teven exited back into the beating sun, crossing the distance to the corral.

Christian turned from the last of the remuda within the corral. “Have you decided, or do you aim to make Jessica into a California widow?”

Teven cut his eyes. “I’ll not leave her in Boston each drive season. Not sure she wants to live out here. Chicago, though, that’s a tad closer.”

“She's married you and followed you over here. I’m thinking she’d be happy anywhere you are, an’ don’t care a sweet continental about the East Coast.”

Teven closed the corral gate. “It's the large cities I'm thinking of. She writes for the papers. How’s she to do that in old St. Maria?” He meant the missionary town of Grand Valley in the mountains west of Pikes Peak, across the continental divide, near Van's ranch.

“She can pen tales of the wild frontier and the big figures lookin’ to beat the Dutch and strike it rich. And besides, what are we to do for work if you give up partnership with Van? Seems Jessica is the only one earning chink.”

Teven leaned against the corral fence with a heavy demeanor.

Christian slapped his brother’s shoulder. “Ah, she’d stand the gaff for you.”

Teven knew that to be true, still, he wouldn’t have his wife suffer for him or for Van’s dreams of being a granger.

*

Day Long and Nathan walked side-by-side toward Red Clay’s sole saloon, a long narrow wooden building with two stories. A porch and upper balcony at the front, the shit-houses in the back. As they approached, Nils Katz emerged from the dark entrance to the saloon.

Nathan shook his head. “Balls.”

Jonas followed behind Nils as the largest of the Katz brothers recognized Nathan and Day Long.

Nils’ lips curled up. “We don't serve yer kind in here.”

“What kind? Black man or Indian?” Day Long quipped.

“Neither, mongrel.”

Nathan grabbed Day Long’s shoulder. “They don't own the joint, and this place is a trading post for the Navajo. Let it go.”

“Can't come it.”

Nathan pulled him around. “You can. He's embarrassed.”

“As he should be.”

“By God's great patience, you're always looking for a fight.”

“Hobble your lip, Nate.” Day Long said. “You're an old croaker. There's nothin’ wrong with a good brush.”

Nathan scowled. “Isn't one a day enough?”

“Don’ be down on me.”

Nathan sighed, rubbing his belly. “I was just looking to grab a root, get a scrub. But you always gotta play the hard case. You can't pull in your horns without being asleep?”

“You make it like I'm always on the shoot.”

“You are. John Day Long don't suit you so much as ‘Trouble’ would. Johnny Trouble.”

Day Long grinned. “I like it. But don't try an’ soft soldier me.”

Nils raised his hand and yelled to the squabbling scouts. “You two ladies done sqwakin’ or are the two of ya married?”

Day Long gestured at Nathan. “Yeh, you like long, silver locks? Come have a kiss.”

Jonas uttered an odd, girlish laugh. Nils slapped him. Nathan scowled at Day Long.

A strong and accented voice sounded to their right. Abraham and Isaak Katz approached. Both Nathan and Day Long tensed.

“Jonas, go find Gunther.”

Day Long followed Abraham's movements as he and Isaak joined Nils. Nathan watched Jonas run off along the hard-packed dirt of the main street.

“Pardon Nils here, I've business for him to attend.” Abraham said.

Nils motioned to speak before Abraham's cutting stare shut him up.

“Leave it be.” Nathan said to Day Long in a whisper of fierce intent.

Day Long batted him away. “I ain't lookin’ to cause a shindy.”

“Brothers.” Abraham said and nodded down the street.

Nils bristled but followed his brothers past Abraham and off the stoop along Jonas’ trail up main street. Abraham tipped the front of his hat to Nathan and Day Long before he too walked up the main street.

Nathan punched Day Long in his ribs. “Always ready to let fly. We’re going in there and having a meal. Your mouth don't open ‘less it's for chuck or hooch.”

“Maybe we is married. I sure don't remember the day. Was your dress white and purty?”

Nathan pushed him toward the saloon. “You're an odd stick.”

“And you've got one up yer ass.”

*

Van returned to the blacksmith’s shop, the heat radiating from it, along with the heavy scent of iron and coal, sweat and oil. The constant ring of hammer and anvil drummed in his ears such that he swallowed and popped them.

His planters hat removed, Van paused at the entrance to the oven-like hell of the smithy. “Hello again. How’s it shaping up?”

The blacksmith looked up from his work, nodding to his assistant, a raven-haired young woman. She smiled and carried the first branding iron over to Van, hung on her fore and middle fingers. “Is this what you wanted?”

He took the brand and hefted it. Turning it over, he examined the hooked-V brand itself, forge welded to a T-bar on the front end of the rod. The brand itself was a hooked-V, because it appeared to be an inverted ‘W’, with its outer stem strokes truncated. The sharp front edges of the iron, which would brand the hide, grinded off. The V itself fit in his palm, a four by four inch triangle.

“Can you complete all four by noon, as agreed?”

The woman turned to her father who grunted. She turned back and smiled. “It shouldn’t take us long, we’ve not much else today save some horseshoes.”

The smith looked up from his anvil. “A farrier’s task is all which seems left to me, but it's honest work. Where do you hail from?”

“The territory north of here and to the west of Pikes Peak, across the divide. The Grand Valley.”

“Ah, so you boys haven't fought back east?”

Van shrugged, thinking just how far east the Crimea lay. “No, too busy setting up my ranch in the Grand Valley.”

The old man’s daughter, a female smith, returned to her side of the forge and an anvil she worked. The brand stamp bent and grinded into shape by her deft and skilled hands.

The elder smith glanced up in a pause of his hammer. “A grand valley?”

“Yes, a grand valley, its name suits it. Flat and sparse, but there is beauty too in the canyonlands to the south. I’ve land there, just at the southern edge, my ranch. A haven away from the madness, if not some conflict with the native Utes from time to time.” He thought of the Danen Family and their constant expansion into the lands of the Ute.

The smith nodded, his ceaseless movement with the orange metal undeterred. “We’ve some encounters with the indians. Navajo and Abajo, some Utes come for my work. Apache too.”

Van's stomach rumbled. “Abajo?” He and the boys made the recent and welcome acquaintance of the Abajo and their elder, Pooling Waters. Nathan and Day Long knew of the tribe, and on their journey south, just days ago passed through Abajo country. Van's stomach gurgled, felt but not heard in the cacophony of the smithy. Piki bread. Honey. Time for breakfast or an early lunch.

“Abajo are a sensible people, more so than the Apache. Various types of Apache anyhow, but the Spanish done dealt them a blow enough times. Families like the Gasentos, for what, some two hundred years? But the Comanche are your true concern. They attack white and red men alike.”

Van shifted his weight. “You feel it's dangerous to drive east to Santa Fe? I heard the Comancheria began just beyond.”

“It begins where the Comanche say it do. Wherever you find them. Still and all, they always did head south into Mexico proper. I fought in the great Intervention with a special group we called Taylor's Raiders.”

His daughter laughed.

“I saw an awful lot of desolation down south on account of Comanche raids. Ruined and empty ranches, whole ghost towns. I figure that was a good start as any that them Gasentos saw an end to their glory days as big augurs. But what I've heard since, that family’s been done many years back.”

Van frowned. “How so?”

“Well, that's about when the Terry Family came to these parts, claimin’ ownership of lands what clearly once belonged to the Gasentos and other Spaniards.”

“Anyhow, that was in my younger days.” The old smith gestured at his daughter. “We settled here in Red Clay after the failure of the western campaign. I manned a traveling forge for the artillery. I’ve not much taste of war, an’ chose to earn my keep once Fort Defiance closed. I’ve never had a problem with heat. Need the blood of Vulcan when you’re a smith.”

Van nodded. “You came over from the Union forces at Fort Defiance?”

“Work mostly as a farrier, but we’ve the skills to cover most any needs that come through the post. There’s iron all round, in these red sands.” He took another hooked-V from his daughter. “You served? You one of the British volunteers? Had enough of it too?”

Van raised his hand, shook his head. “Not British. Cymry.”

The smith’s daughter furrowed her brow, confused.

“Welsh.” Van said. “You mentioned Vulcan, smith to the Roman gods. Do you know of Gofannon?”

“Govanon?” The daughter said.

Van spread his arms, his hat dangled by its brim in his hand. “Smith to the Faer.”

The smith’s daughter quenched the latest hooked-V in oil. “I thought fairies and elves and the like can’t stand the touch of iron.”

Van raised an eyebrow. “So true. But more a smith god than a blacksmith.”

The elder smith smiled. “Do you believe in the gods?”

The horrors witnessed off the shores of the Azov Sea, tumbled through Van's mind. His countenance grew dark.

“Lo so. You saw things in your war, eh? Done seen the elephant you have.” The old smith stoked the fires of the forge. “In the Old World, at the end of war, armies didn’t disperse and go home, for every war creates three armies. An army of the wounded, an army of the bereaved, and an army of thieves.”

Van made an expression of agreement as the smith’s daughter approached with a leather tool roll for the finished brands.

“My mother preferred to see the forge of war like our smithy. We can craft a weapon or a tool. Given care and attention, both can be things of beauty.”

The blacksmith’s shop grew quiet but for the roar of flames.

She continued. “Men can be tempered by war, they can be hammered to bend or break, and the fires of the forge can destroy or create. The bellows stoke the fires of the forge just as man fans the flames of war. Without this, the fires fail and there is a different sort of darkness.”

His hat set aside, Van unfolded the leather tool roll. “This is excellent work.”

“Thank you. My father taught me the secrets of the forge and my mother leatherworking.”

Van glanced up, a gleam in his eye. “Both a blacksmith and leathersmith.”

“And a beauty.” Her father added.

She turned to chide her father. Van laughed.

A voice called from the entrance and all three turned to see Teven wave his arm. The roar of the forge and the return of the hammer blows drowned his words at that distance of several feet from the entrance.

Van returned the tool roll. “Thank you, I'll return before noon.”

With a nod to the old Smith, Van walked out into the chill morning air; an escape from the oppressive heat within the shop. His shirt clung to sweat on his back. He placed his planters hat on his head and pulled on its brim to draw it lower on his forehead.

Teven tipped his own bowler hat to the smith's daughter and turned to Van. "The remuda is tended. The livery master seems decent enough."

Van nodded.

“Christian is staying with them of course. We've a few hours til noon. I plan to get some chuck for myself and Christian before then.”

Van touched his belly. A bath and a meal, both sounded good. Rationing his honey was the harshest of tasks ahead.

*

Abraham turned on his brothers. Nils, Isaak, and Jonas Katz stood with Gunther Wiles, a dark-haired gunman in a dust-caked, once-black shirt and torn leather bat wings. “Ol’ Terry had words with me jus’ now, over our shindy at the livery. Have a look at this.” Abraham held up a letter. “Turns out those two mestizo young'uns are runaways from the Gasento lands. An’ Galtero Gasento is lookin’ for the girl.”

Jonas stared at the letter and scratched his head as Nils protested. “We ain't helpin’ no Mexicans now are we?”

“Come now, brother Nils. You're the strong one, not the dumb one.” Abraham glared over the top of the letter, his demeanor sour. “Gasento is on his way here, an’ we're gonna collect the reward. This here letter is from Terry.” He tapped the bottom of the paper for emphasis.

“Poppa always said Jonas was the dumb one.” Isaak said.

Nils nodded as he and Isaak laughed.

Jonas frowned. “Momma always said I was her favorite.” He took the letter from Abraham. “It says here, anyone what sees the girl should report her whereabouts to the Terrys.”

Nils laughed. “Appears you can read.”

Isaak shook his head. “Abraham jus’ done tol’ Terry. You listening?”

Abraham snatched the letter back. “Gunther, you still got a few heeled up fellas?”

The gunman nodded. “Few boys carryin’ black-eyed Susan's, a rifle or two.”

“Good, good. Gasento will be here today.” Abraham grinned, his hand waved toward the saloon. “We'll take the girl right from them drovers. Impress upon ‘em the error in crossin’ us. Then deliver the slave girl straight to the Comanchero.”

Jonas frowned. “So we is helpin’ the Mexicans?”

Abraham wiggled a finger. “Nah, these are rich Mexicans, Comancheros. An old Spanish family. Rich like the Terry family. Big figures. They owned the land east of here back in the days of the Spanish.”

The other Katz brothers laughed as Gunther Wiles set off to find his gun-carrying friends.