Van and Teven rode side by side as they left Fort Red Clay. Ahead of them, near a pile of eroded pink rock, the Semos vaqueros waited, slouched in their saddles. Juan Semos, Marcos and the twelve riders, Sende and her brother, among them. Teven nodded toward Sende. “That’s interesting. Aleya hears of this, she’ll have something to say.”

Van smiled. “Aleya's intent on putting the ranch in order. She’s welcome to join us.”

Teven grimaced. “No, I’m thinking Aleya would rather be trail boss than you or I, and we attend the ranch.”

Van made a face of agreement, with one eyebrow raised. Aleya oversaw the remaining construction of the farm buildings and corrals necessary at the end of the cattle run and their introduction of a small herd to the Grand Valley, her family's history in the valley, and father's business contacts, essential to the establishment of the ranch.

Juan Semos sat upon a sorrel mare with a worn Spanish saddle. “Señor Van, these are the herders you asked for. Good men, a few are my cousins, others are former stockmen.”

“Former?”

“Much of these lands once belonged to vast rancherias. There’s little work now, and much conflict with the settlers, the Navajo, Comanche, and Apache. The Comanche rule the lands south and east. Many towns and farms lay empty, their owners staked to the dirt, left to die in the sun, or sold to the Comancheros.”

Van nodded. “These other drovers can be trusted?”

“Yes, they are family, by blood or by time and torment.”

Van and Teven understood the bonds of torment; the Horror of Azov.

Juan Semos removed his broad-brimmed hat. “May young Sende ride as our remudero?”

Van looked at Teven.

Teven gestured toward the livery. “My brother is tending the spare horses. Why is Sende with you?”

“She is safer with us and earns her keep.” Juan Semos sighed. “As I’ve said, it is a harsh life, as much as this desert.”

Teven spoke first. “Having Sende tend the spare horses frees up Christian to ride as a swing rider.”

Van raised his hand. “Sende can ride as a second wrangler. She and Christian will take separate watches.”

Teven nodded at Van’s suggestion and Juan gestured for them to join him in meeting each of the riders.

*

The sun sat high in the noon sky and a slight bit to the south, it's heat oppressive, yet not as harsh as the summer to come. Still, Van's head ached, or rather, his temples, and that caused great unease and occasional glances from Teven. The trail boss and naval friend knew the meaning of the pain. More than Van was willing to believe.

They watched Juan Semos share the news with a much relieved Sende, and noted her relief. As an escape from the uncertainty of her next meal, or the release from the dangers of a frontier outpost such as Red Clay?

The heavy tread of horseshoes drew Van's speculative attention away, replaced by razor focus. He knew then, the source of the pain in his temples.

Abraham Katz, his brothers, and five gunmen, trotted a mixture of fine Andalusians toward the scattered drovers.

Abraham Katz sneered. “Señor Gasento wants that one.” He pointed a black leather-gloved finger at Sende. “Your cattle Kate. Wants her back. Yeah, her. Ran away from her people.”

Van and Teven frowned. Marcos and the remainder of the Semos family gathered between Katz and Sende. The vaqueros outnumbered the gunmen, the difference being, only Teven carried weapons.

Van sighed, his eyes directed to Abraham. “Don't make us fight you.”

Katz jerked his head sideways. “What you talkin’ ‘bout, boy? You some sorta curly wolf?”

The southern drawl of Abraham’s accent, laced with disdain, rankled Van. Worse still he and the boys did not stand for slavery.

Abraham appraised his handful of gunmen, smiled at his brothers, and shrugged. He leaned against his saddle horn, arms crossed, his right hand expressive, he gestured at the collected mestizo drovers. “All these people, they have their place, and your friend there's the only one carryin’, see?” Abraham waved his hand at Teven. “Gowan, drop yer cannister, we don't want no brush with you. That there girl’s rightful property of the Gasento family.”

Silence.

Abraham sagged in his saddle. “Look, we hear tell you're a big augur, Mister Bran.” He swung his leg over his mount’s head and slid down the horse's shoulder. He gestured to Teven while he stared at Van. His right palm on the walnut grip of his revolver. “Tell your trailboss to drop his black-eyed Susan or leave it be in its holster, while we take the girl back inta Red Clay. Less you is lookin’ to take the big jump. None of the rest of ya is carryin’ iron.”

The idea of slavery angered Van, and yet his mind drifted, as it often did, to the Horror of Azov, the fierce naval battle that ended in Cossack sorcery, Fever Wraiths, and death.

Van shifted on his right foot. “I meant the two of us. You and me.”

The signal between Van and Teven was imperceptible to all but the two childhood friends. Learned in battle, Van and Teven knew. Act first. Be decisive. Action, not reaction. The element of surprise.

Van stepped up off his right foot and brought his fist down across the bridge of Abraham's nose. The crackle of cartilage against bone sounded. Katz stumbled back as Van pressed forward. The gunmen’s shock already ebbed as Abraham’s hat hit the dirt.

Teven fired two shots to the gun arms of those closest to him.

Van planted his feet, thrust out his palm, striking Abraham's throat. The Semos cousins huddled close around Sende. Their horses spooked, the animals whinnied a shrill squeal in anger and bucked their remaining mestizo riders.

The Katz gunmen regained their focus, turned toward the unarmed Semos cousins and mestizo drovers.

A dark-haired gunman in a dust-caked, once-black shirt and torn leather bat wings, leveled his rifle toward Hernan and Sende Semos. His shoulders leveled as he leaned his head to aim.

Hernan shielded Sende with his body as he and his young sister crouched between their clustered cousins.

The gunman’s head erupted in a spurt of blood and brain matter. The man beside him, painted in crimson, hunched his shoulders, blinked, and cursed.

His right arm exploded.

Nathan stood at the edge of Fort Red Clay, his volcanic repeater cast spent shells as he pumped the rifle’s lever action. Day Long sprinted past the blonde scout. Terrorizing the horses of the Katz gunmen, he screamed with waggled tongue, bared teeth, and wild eyes. One by one the gunmen toppled from their mounts. The men landed heavy with the snap and crack of bones. Day Long fell upon each wounded man in turn as Nathan marched forward, repeater at the ready.

Abraham fared better than his fellow gunmen and bludgeoned brothers. Van stood over the unconscious roughneck with a dour look of disappointment. Violence, ever present, seemed to trouble all his days and haunt his nights.

He dragged the back of his hand across his nostrils against the sweet-sick odor of tulips and sage. It did no good, the scent was entwined with his memories of the Crimea.

“Van.”

Creosote and lime. The desert. The smell of black powder hung thick in the air, as did the odors of sweat and horseshit. Teven stood beside him, his navy revolver holstered. Van looked over the scene. The panicked horses of the Katz galloped past Nathan, back into the the trading post. The Semos family parted as Juan Semos and Sende approached, followed by Hernan.

“Lo siento, Señor Van, Sende was a slave of Don Gasento.”

“Yeah, we fancy.” Day Long said.

Van raised his hand. “Tell me.”

“Señor Van?”

“Do you mean to lead us into former Gasento lands and steal their cattle? Is this a vendetta? Revenge for your cousin Sende?”

Sende moved forward to speak and Hernan held her firmly. Juan Semos turned to her. “Callate.”

“No, Señor Van. The beeves roam free. For many generations now. Many years. The Gasento rancheria is empty but for the family. Don Gasento and his youngest brother, they are all that remain. Don Gasento, his wife and many daughters.”

Day Long huffed. “Seems like an almighty lot of people to me.”

Van crossed his arms and sighed. “The drovers are from the Gasento ranch too?”

Juan Semos raised his hands. “Marcos and I, we worked for our government against gangs of cattle rustlers and Comanche, who cross the border to steal. We relied on the trust in our family, si?”

Teven gestured toward the vaqueros. “You never worked on the Gasento ranch?”

Juan Semos stepped forward. “No. A rancheria is not the same. It is a land grant.”

“Explain.” Van said.

“The Gasento Family are old blood Spanish ranchos who fight to defend their claim of Family Concession granted by the Spanish.”

Van knew this much, the Spanish and later Mexican government encouraged settlement of the Territorio de Nuevo Mexico territories of California, New Mexico, and Texas by the establishment of large land grants. Many became ranchos, devoted to the raising of cattle and sheep. It was from many of these ranchos that the cattle Van sought first came to the region. The owners of these ranchos and rancherias patterned themselves after the landed gentry in Spain. Their workers included Native Americans, and those of mixed descent, mestizos, some of whom spoke Spanish. Of the hundreds of grants, Spain made only a few and the Gasento grant must have been among the oldest.

Van shook his head. Teven stood at his side, arms crossed. Day Long gnawed on dried beef. Nathan reloaded his repeater.

“Best we tie up these men, Van? Before they regain their wits.”

Day Long laughed. Another strip of jerky between his teeth, he waved the remainder towards Abraham. “Long as we control Mr. Patriarch, the rest won't bother us none.”

Nathan sucked his teeth. “He's their brother, not their poppa.”

Day Long sneered at the blonde scout.

Juan Semos watched Van with an anxious stare. The vaqueros and Semos cousins watched over the unconscious or groaning gunmen.

Van turned to Teven. “Gather your brother and the horses. Take young Sende with you. We’ll tend to the Katz brothers and their pistoleros.”

Turning to Juan Semos, Van shared a silencing glance with the elder Semos, as Sende passed between them to trail Teven back to the corrals.

*

Abraham Katz rubbed his wounded throat, his voice hoarse, he chose not to talk more than needed. His brothers and their wounded friends tended by the post saw boss, Abraham met with Galtero Gervaso Gasento. The tall, well-dressed, landed Mexican sat calm and reposed beneath the porch of the saloon, a gray wolf with a black streak on its right shoulder lay two feet away, its head raised with watchful, hungry eyes.

“You disappoint, Abraham.” Galtero stared out into the desert at the southern end of the main street. “Mr. Terry told me you are a man to depend upon to see dark deeds done. There's the problem, I suspect.”

Abraham stared at Galtero in silence.

“I only wanted to know of the girl's location. I believe I made that clear in my letter to Mr. Terry. Yet you sought petty revenge for your embarrassment at the hands of the Americans.”

“British.”

“Que?”

Katz swallowed and the action caused him to wince. “I think they're from England.”

Galtero stood, the wolf likewise. “No matter. You may have redeemed yourself. Enough that you shall still be paid. There is great power within those four men.”

Confused, Abraham watched a silent discourse between Galtero and the wolf. The Mexican glanced at Abraham. “I've someone to follow them. This is the land of the Escuridado, and any who trespass will suffer.”

Galtero dismissed Katz with a flick of the wrist.

*

Christian thanked the livery master as the last of the remuda followed Sende. He'd watched as she gathered and prepared the horses, making the excuse of speaking with and paying the livery master. Teven paid the man hours earlier, when the horses entered the corral. Instead, Christian studied Sende’s techniques. The livery master closed the corral gate and dipped his head towards Christian.

Atop their geldings, Christian and Sende drove the horses out of Red Clay and circled around to the southeast.

Christian watched Sende, unsure what her duties to the Gasento Family included, but content that she would perform well as fellow wrangler.

*

From the second story balcony of the lone saloon, Galtero Gasento watched the cattle drivers ride southeast. In the street below, the wolf trotted between the buildings into the desert toward the dust cloud kicked up by the drovers.