Christian stood atop a butte above the center of the plain, its flat top barren but for twisted junipers and Pueblo ruins. He clambered to the precarious lip of a crumbled tower wall and looked out over the land. Thick timber crept up the north escarpment and across the minor plateau on the southern side of the butte. Between both, the plain stretched west and east for miles following the natural corridor of the Zuni Mountains. For the scouts to return with his brother, Van, and Juan Semos, the only path was from behind the herd, to the west.

The herd was miles beyond the rendezvous point and the sun past its zenith. Long shadows crept northeast across the valley, blind to the passage of man and beast. Christian held his brother's leather and brass-fitted naval telescope to his eye, panning the scope of the plain to the northern escarpment and dotted cover of tenacious pinyon and juniper.

Nothing.

He panned along the north side of the herd, momentarily moving the device from his eye. Doing so, he located Sende riding lead on the remuda. The herd of spare horses trotted well north of the cattle, closer to the edge of the northern escarpment. Training the telescope along his line of sight, Christian watched the young wrangler, her long black hair flowed behind her bouncing on her shoulders from beneath her bowler hat. She wore an off-white shirt with grey vest and baggy brown pants clearly borrowed from her cousins. Loose enough to hide the curvaceous hips and thighs beneath.

Shaking his head with heated cheeks, Christian tore his attention from the mestizo girl and trailed the telescope along the length of the escarpment, westward. He clicked his tongue—old Juan Semos knew the land well enough, yet there was no clear passage over the escarpment. The creek and its origin within the slopes above the escarpment remained the surest route back from the farm. That a good few miles behind them now.

Frustration and anxiety twisted his gut, his grip on the telescope tightened. He raised the spyglass to peer west.

Movement.

Well behind the herd, something moved in the trampled rabbitbrush and sage. Whatever it was darted about and was gone faster than Christian’s ability to keep pace.

He whipped the device away and held his hand over his eyes. The dust behind the herd obscured much of the route below the horizon. It was too far away, over two miles. The length of the herd and more. Cursing, he stared through the telescope again.

Several minutes passed as he panned back and forth in the same area.

Nothing.

It didn't matter, whatever it was, Van and Teven didn't move that fast. Some animal disturbed in its burrow, or maybe a coyote.

Angry, he descended from his precarious perch, sat in a huff, turning the telescope over in his hands, assaulted by his own reasons for traveling west.

With no wish to follow his father into marine insurance and the world of finance, he traveled to the old Du Har estate in Normandy, painting in the pursuit of Realism—the portrayal of everyday life. There, he sought out the workers of the land and towns along the coast and struggled to capture their essence in oils, enjoying his nights with wines, food and other pursuits. Christian laughed, the idea of Realism lost on the young ladies, they never understood how the drudgery of their lives doubled as art. He nonetheless understood the enticing mystery of the artist in their minds, painting many a portrait, or at least, the planning of many, all this before Teven returned from the Crimea.

With Teven came Van, full of his usual, infectious hope. Van spoke of a fresh start in the New World. The very idea of life on the frontier and living beyond the known world sparked a broad smile, and Christian sighed.

He looked up from his glazed detour into memory, breathed in and shivered. The world came back all of a sudden. The ponderous sounds of the cattle, the Spanish cries and curses of the vaqueros struck him, along with the ache of rock against flesh. A hand to the small of his back, he rose slowly. He rubbed the ache and numbness from his ass. How he dreaded the saddle, the sores now forefront in his mind. The family retained the skills of horsemanship from their Norman ancestors with none of the reality of day-to-day, endless riding. Cautious, he stepped forward with knees bent, back straight, mindful of posture.

“Ah, shit.”

His back stiff, Christian walked in a small circle. Coughing on dust, he strode to the western edge of the butte. The rear of the herd trotted below a cloud of dust. Hands on the small of his back, he realized he'd lost track of time. He stood straight and squeezed his buttocks together with hands stretched high to the gentle pop and relief of his spine. He stared out over the grandeur of it all. He wasn't so much a landscape artist, and yet to stand with canvas and oil and attempt to capture it all, he wasn't so sure ranching was his future and understood, in some way, why Teven had yet to commit to a business partnership with Van.

*

Shocked by the Black Seminole’s revelation, Nathan pulled his head back in surprise. “You know where the shapeshifters are going?”

Day Long grinned. “Los Orlos.”

Nathan threw his hands up. “Los Orlos? Where's that?”

“That's where they wanted to lead us, brethren. Divide and conquer. But that's not where they'll be, not first, an’ that gives us time.”

“Time?”

Day Long sucked his teeth. “To rescue Van, Teven, and ol’ Juan Semos. Los Orlos is a week's ride south of hereabouts.

Nathan's hand shot forward. “A week? We can't trust they'll be alive that long.”

Day Long grimaced. “I already know they ain't aimin’ ta kill ‘em. And anyhow, we try anythin’ now, we’ll be outnumbered and overpowered by the damned skinwalkers.” He tapped his forehead. “But I've got a plan to cut ‘em off before they reach Los Orlos.”

“Los Orlos sounds familiar.”

“Sure an’ right, it should. Was round them parts, Pecos and West Texas, some years ago. You heard of the slew of killin’ by the Croshan Gang?”

Nathan shrugged. “Heard of the gang.”

“Kreel Croshan killed a local sheriff then decided to start a private war with the Rangers. Saw himself as a Caddite, ‘cause they aimed to see the Caddo Republic snap up the territories and form a new nation. Los Orlos was a hotbed of ol’ Caddites, may still be.”

“They're still active?” Nathan shook his finger. “The Caddites I mean. What I heard of them, they were similar to the Confederacy or the Republic of the Rio Grande. Hell, similar to the Texans.”

Day Long nodded. “Stands to reason the Gasentos were caught up in all that. Way to keep their land, and grab back their prestige.”

“Now, if the Gasentos are part of a Caddoan elite what was part of the Caddite uprising some thirty years back, they have a say in who owns what.”

“How do you know this?”

Day Long rubbed the skin of his exposed forearm. “Know thy enemy.”

“Oh, I thought maybe you had other memories from the shapeshifters.”

“What? No, I only saw their strongest images. Names, intentions an’ the like. No politics, brethren.”

Nathan swept his hand in a short arc. “I'd say religion and politics are powerful motivators leavin’ strong memories.”

Day Long grinned. “Yep. That an’ sex.”

Nathan shrugged. “True. Wait, you took a gander at…”

“Don't even say it, Silver Hair. Anyhow, it's Los Orlos that they're headed to an’ killin’ the boys ain't yet part of that.”

“And us?” Nathan frowned. “They planned to walk us down there? To Los Orlos?”

“No, you fool, they'd have possessed us an’ have us ride these here horses. Talkin’ of horses, we’ll need spares.”

“You think some of them shapeshifters wear the skins of horses? Oh! You don't think those two was wearing Van and Teven’s skins?”

Day Long stared at Nathan. “I think they're a mixed lot. Not plain skinwalkers, maybe the local diableros. They're damned shapeshifters of a sort is what I know.”

“So you don't remember what they are?”

Day Long scoffed. “What’d I just say? I don't know their life story.” He stabbed a finger at Nathan. “What do you think of yourself as? I don't think of myself as a colored man or mongrel, I think of me as me. That's how I knew their true names an’ destination.”

“Wait.” Nathan said. “How'd you survive it? It tried to possess you, yeah? I mean, why’d the shapeshifter die?”

Day Long wrapped his fist around the foxhead, released and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. “Maybe this protected me? My adopted people gave it to me. They said it was an important talisman and a symbol of my animal totem.”

Nathan raised his chin. “A fox. Now that suits you. A dark fox.”

*

From his vantage atop the butte Christian caught movement along a narrow break in the escarpment, the lengthened shadows carving out the previously invisible landmark. Peering through the spyglass, he noted the tiny figures of Day Long and Nathan leading their mounts along the precarious scree slope. With great care he hurried to the climbable side of the butte. The ascent far easier than the return, he stared down the hundreds of feet of cliff face and sighed.

Day Long and Nathan descended the treacherous slope at a pained pace, slow and cautious. Their horses, mountain mustangs chosen by Nathan, chose their steps with deft surety. Still, Day Long stared out over the passing herd with great impatience.

“Damn it, brethren, time's a wastin’ and we need them spare rides.” Day Long gestured toward the approaching remuda, led by Sende. “An’ that there girl’s the cause of all this.”

Looking up from the scree, Nathan scowled. “That might be true, but you're the one that recommended the Semos family and their cousins.”

Day Long huffed. “Details.”

At the base of the slope the two scouts remounted and rode through the small thicket of cottonwoods growing in the runoff that formed the cut in the escarpment. The sounds of the herd grew louder as the cottonwoods thinned among juniper and rabbitbrush. The strong scent of cedar soon mingled with sage. Clear of the cottonwoods, the two men rode to meet the remuda and halt Sende.