Caleb Waite removed his Stetson hat in order to wipe the sweat off his brow with one grimy sleeve as his horse trotted wearily toward the little town just down the trail. The early summer, hot Montana sun beat mercilessly down from a cloudless sky. Judging from the puffs of dust that kicked up with every hoof beat of his horse, the sky hadn't seen too much cloud cover in quite some time, certainly none that offered any rain, anyway.

The same trail dust from the horse's hooves also swirled around in every chance breeze that blew, coating Caleb and his horse in the grainy particles. Caleb's clothing and skin seemed permanently ingrained with the black of it, while the horse was unevenly blanketed in a sticky mud made of dirt and horse-sweat. The horse blew threw his nostrils in annoyance.

Caleb chuckled. "I know, Old Hoss," he told his old friend, "but the town's just ahead another mile or two." Still, he figured he knew just how the horse felt.

Caleb hadn't the money for a bath and a haircut, but the few coins in his pocket should buy himself a hot meal and some provision, at the very least. Caleb had come up through the Black Hills and wandered northeast from there, veering into southern Montana in his quest for work.

Soon, the horse had entered a wide way marked 'Main Street', thought it also looked to be the only street. As if of his own volition, the horse made his way toward the livery stable that lay at the far end of 'Main Street', looking forward to a stall with hay and water. As tired as his horse was, Caleb wished he had a little extra to spend on some oats as well.

Once the horse was bedded down and comfortable, Caleb made his way to the town's only saloon, where he could be assured of a hot meal and a bit of local gossip to go with it. Inside the saloon, Caleb ordered a whiskey because it was expected, then a beer because he was thirsty and didn't trust the water. A hot meal was almost complimentary after that.

"Just passing through?" enquired the barkeep as he served the food.

"Anyone hiring?" returned Caleb easily around a forkful of the bartender's stew.

The barkeep shrugged. "You can ask, I guess. Most of the spring work's already done though. Slash V sits about a mile down the trail south of here, Rocking K lies beyond. Head west some and you'll ride onto the Flying W, with the Bar L beyond that. North of town's the Rafter C. They're all mostly small outfits and as far as I know, all running a full crew; but like I said, it never hurts to ask."

"What lays to the east?" enquired Caleb mildly, wondering why the bartender hadn't said anything about that particular direction.

"Do yourself a favor, Cowpoke. Don't head east. Only one spread lies out that-away and them that rides into the Lazy 8 never seem to come out."

Caleb wasn't inclined to believe him. In fact, his ornery bent was leaning on going east, merely because he'd been warned away from it! "Must be hard to hire anyone, if everyone who rides Lazy 8 range disappears," he commented in a mild voice, hiding his curiosity under a steady poker-face.

"Owner don't hire anyone," the barkeeper answered, not to be dissuaded. "Which folks around here find almighty peculiar, since the calves end up branded every year and every year, several hundred steers head out by rail. They always appear in the railroad's corral in the dead of night, with no one the wiser as to how they got there; with every one of 'em bearing a Lazy 8 brand and them Slocums right there, waiting for the cattle dealer to show up."

"Peculiar," agreed the young cowboy with an easy grin. "Don't suppose it's magic, do you?" He was funning the older man, of course; but the bartender shook his head.

"Don't be laughing now," warned the bartender, polishing a glass with his rag. "Nigh onto eighty years, the Lazy 8 ranch has been there with no one but them Slocums to live in the ranch house. The entire ranch is fenced in tight enough to keep a coyote in and every post has the Lazy 8 burned into the top. Folks have disappeared out there, what were expected back here in town."

"Recently?" questioned the cowboy curiously. He didn't put much stock in the barkeep's tales of course, figuring the tale was designed to warn off any undesirable newcomers. As a man newly come to town, Caleb Waite figured the barkeep was practicing his malarkey on a new set of ears.

"Within the last five years," confirmed the barkeep ominously. "That Carlyle woman done run off on her old man; climbed the fence to get away. She never come out. Old Jack Turner set his mind to trapping the farther end of the ranch and set out to do just that. His jackass done come back, only he never did. We followed that boy's back-trail clear to the Lazy 8 line, but no one dares cross it to find out exactly what happened to Old Jack.

"Not only that, it seems mighty peculiar how that fence stays so well maintained, with only the three Slocums to keep it up." He paused then amended his statement. "I should say, 'only Miss Slocum', since her folks done passed on, God rest their souls."

Caleb stifled a chuckle as he finished his meal. "Thanks, Old Timer. I'll keep that in mind." He threw the appropriate coins onto the counter and stood up.

"You do that," agreed the barkeep as he counted Caleb's coins. He didn't bother to watch the stranger leave.

From the saloon, Caleb made his way toward the general store in order to lay in a few things before he rode out of the town. Being nearly dead-broke, Caleb didn't have enough for a room in town, so he figured to sage-hen outside town for the night, camping out for a night before heading out to look for work.

He'd come north with a cattle drive, having worked the same spread for nearly a decade before the boss hadn't needed his assistance any longer. After the drive, Caleb had taken his pay and started to look for work again, working his way west as he went, asking in most towns he came to for work. Trouble was, with the drought going on, most spreads weren't hiring and Caleb's pay was about gone.

He wasn't too worried though. If worst came to worst, he'd build himself a bit of shelter in the woods and run a few traps to get himself through the winter. It wasn't the most perfect plan but Caleb figured it was passable.

Inside the general store, an older woman stood behind the counter, chatting amiably with the town marshal. At least the tall, somewhat portly man was the marshal if the silver star pinned to his vest was any indication. Caleb entered the store and headed for the counter. With only a few cents rattling around in his pocket, Caleb didn't figure he'd be in there long.

"Can I help you?" asked the woman dubiously, eyeing Caleb's filthy, scruffy appearance.

"Yes, Ma'am," Caleb answered calmly, not at all put off. He knew what he looked like and thought she was probably wise to be cautious, not knowing him at all. With the drought affecting jobs, there were plenty of down-on-their-luck cowhands who might not hesitate to rob an establishment such as this in order to be able to afford something at the next store! "Do you have any jerked meat?"

"Sure, a little," she agreed. "You can have what I got for a dollar; you fixin' to stay long? I could do up more."

Caleb shook his head, knowing he could only afford about half her stock anyway. "Can't afford to linger, Ma'am. Looking for work though, if you know anybody as needs help hereabouts?"

"Can't say as I do," she frowned thoughtfully. The marshal had moved off, presumably to browse, though he paused from his perusal of the store's stock in order to sneak looks at Caleb now and then. The store's proprietress glanced over and addressed the man. "Marshal Sikes, do you know of any work hereabouts?" The marshal only grunted a negative reply, obviously not eager to have such a scruffy-looking, unemployed cowhand in his town any longer than necessary.

Caleb paid for a fistful of jerky and left to find a place near the livery to camp out. Just because he couldn't enjoy the town didn't mean his Old Hoss should suffer and Caleb had paid in advance for the horse's board, overnight. In the end, he ended up sneaking into the stable well after dark and sleeping in the hay beside his horse. Caleb figured he'd paid for the stall no matter how many live bodies slept there.

Come morning, Caleb made sure to be brushing out his horse when the livery owner arrived for the day. "Fixing to head out?" enquired the barn's owner. Caleb only grunted as he hefted his saddle and rested it on his horse's withers. "Might just as well," continued the man in conversation, "no work hereabouts anyway."

Caleb was hungry and in no mood to be sociable. "Guess not," he agreed, reaching underneath his horse for the first girth strap.

"Well, good luck to you, Cowboy." The liveryman watched Caleb fasten his girth and bridle the horse, saying nothing more.

Caleb merely swung himself up into the saddle and urged his horse forward at an easy walk. Annoyed at being pulled from a comfortable stall and manger of hay so soon, the horse laid one irritable ear backward and blew as he walked.

Near the post office the marshal was already headed toward his office, a stack of mail in one hand. He was perusing one bit of mail already and looked up as Caleb neared. "Say, Young Fella," said the marshal in passing.

Caleb stopped his horse politely. "Yessir?" he asked.

"You wouldn't happen to be Caleb Waite, would you?" The marshal glanced back at the paper and back up to Caleb.

Caleb nodded. "Yes, sir," he replied honestly. "I sure would. Is there a problem?"

"Not here," replied the marshal, "but you seem to have seen some trouble in Texas. Why don't we go on to my office and discuss it?"

Having no idea what the marshal was referring to, Caleb eyed him curiously. "Marshal?" he asked, hoping for clarification. The marshal only looked at him. "I don't remember my being in any trouble back in Texas, Sir," Caleb denied.

"That's not what this here poster says," the marshal retorted, laying one hand on his gun. "Now why don't you come on down to the office so we can sort it out."

Caleb didn't see any choice, even though he was at a total loss as to what the marshal was talking about. If the marshal was any kind of hand with that gun though, Caleb would be dead before his horse reached the edge of town. He pointed his horse toward the jail.

Inside the marshal's office, he read the wanted poster with a growing sense of horror. The poster had a princely sum listed as reward for his return to Texas. Caleb Waite was wanted for questioning, so said the poster, about the violent attack and attempted murder of a young girl. "It wasn't me," he told the marshal. "I have no idea why anyone would think I did this."

"Well, Son," the marshal replied with little sympathy. "The Texas Rangers seem to think you did this thing. In fact, they're about three hundred dollars' worth of sure you did do what's on that poster and I don't aim to take any chances."

The lawman turned to grab a ring of keys' so Caleb made himself scarce. He slipped out the door and mounted his horse before the marshal could even react. The horse carried him half way down the street before the marshal could get himself to the door.

Judging by the angry shout, Caleb knew he had only a little time before the marshal rounded up some men to hunt him down. With a price like that on his head, there was no way the lawman would be willing to pass up such an easy bounty! Caleb didn't think about where he was going but headed his horse out of town, sticking to the road and trusting it to lead somewhere beyond where the lawman might be willing to go.

Caleb had only been riding for about four hours when the posse caught up to him. For a fleeting instant, Caleb remembered an old cowpoke he'd once work with. The old-timer had claimed that the world might well have ended just north of the Black Hills, since there wasn't much of interest beyond them anyway. As bullets whined around him, Caleb fervently wished he'd paid more attention to the old man's wisdom.

His horse was still fairly rested, used to hard travel and eager to run. Caleb urged him off the trail despite being unfamiliar with the country and headed through the overgrown tangle of prairie grasses and scrub brush that made up the eastern Montana grassland. His horse was game, but even the long gaited, flea-bitten roan couldn't run forever. Near dark, Caleb had to stop and rest his mount.

Chewing a piece of the jerky that had used up the last of Caleb's cash, he reflected on the situation. He was being chased by a posse eager for the price on his head, with no clear-cut idea of where he was going and no knowledge of the country he was riding through. Caleb's only hope was that his weary horse could manage to outrun the posse until they decided to give up and go home. Never having been 'on the run' before, Caleb had no idea how long that might take.

Too nervous to sleep, Caleb waited until the moon was riding high in the sky and moved on slowly, not eager to give the posse any chance to catch up. Unfortunately, they seemed to have the same idea though, because near dawn, Caleb found himself trading lead with a trigger-happy bunch of men.

He was laying in the grass with his horse behind him, stretched out and watching down the barrel of his Winchester rifle. The idea wasn't so much killing anyone, as it was keeping them a healthy distance away from where Caleb lay. He could just make out the outline of a hat, so Caleb took his time and aimed for the crown. The Winchester barked and his target flew backward, sending the hat's owner scrambling out of the line of fire.

There were a lot of them though and he was light on ammunition, so Caleb was reluctant to fire again unless he had no choice. In the end, there was nothing else to do but to fork his horse and light a shuck for points elsewhere. Where that might be, however, was beyond Caleb just then.

Caleb Waite hadn't ridden more than a day or so before the posse found him again, and they weren't about to let him get away. Even before shouting a warning, bullets peppered the rocks of the streambed he was crossing, ricocheting with an angry whine and splashing down into the water. The horse was tired but he responded to Caleb's urging and leaped out of the water and up the far bank. Behind them, Caleb could hear the posse splash through the stream in pursuit.

Ground sped under the horse's hooves as he ran, eating distance with powerful strides. Caleb gave him his head and ducked forward to leave as small a target as possible, trusting the horse to pick his way over the unfamiliar ground. Ahead of him, the scrub brush was turning into trees. Still behind, the posse shot toward him, not seeming to care that he was wanted 'for questioning' and not 'dead or alive'.

The horse gathered himself and jumped a fallen tree but stumbled when he landed and fell with a scream of pain that died as abruptly as it came. Caleb rolled away from his horse and cursed when he saw his faithful companion dead. He drew his pistol and fired a warning shot, keeping the posse at bay while he jerked his saddle from the dead horse with another oath.

That horse had served him well. It had run with heart and done everything asked of it. Caleb found it a shameful waste of a good horse that it should lay dead now, shot by the posse currently hunting his own hide. Not only that but his rifle had slid from the leather boot tied to his saddle and was trapped underneath the dead horse, with no hope of his ever recovering it before the posse caught up with him.

Even if he could have gotten it out, Caleb knew that the rifle would be smashed beyond repair. Caleb wouldn't be able to fight the posse off for long when they did catch up with him. Impatiently, Caleb wadded up the ruined rifle's saddle boot with disgust and stuffed it into a saddle bag along with his bridle. When his gear was stripped from the horse, he hefted the saddle and bags, wincing at the pain he felt.

One of the posse's bullets had grazed his side, opening up a nasty cut and glancing off a rib. Knowing the wound was nothing too serious, he started walking. Outrunning a posse that size was hard enough with a horse like the flea-bitten roan under him. Trying to do so on foot might just prove nigh onto impossible.

Caleb knew that if he failed and were caught, however, he would most likely end his life underneath the nearest tree, likely hanging from his own rope. That he was innocent of what they'd accused him of meant nothing to the posse. With that thought in mind, Caleb set out, keeping his eye out for any likely hiding places.

For three days after losing his horse, Caleb managed to evade the posse that chased him, though only just. He ended up with a deep scratch on one cheek to match the bullet-crease along his ribs, from all the lead that the posse had thrown his way. Caleb still managed to carry his gear but the saddle and saddle-bags grew heavier with every passing day and the burn on his side from the stray bullet ached like all the furies. He was also having trouble keeping the wound from bleeding.

Carefully, Caleb backtracked, following his own trail to a decent hiding place he'd seen. Once the posse passed by him following the false trail, then Caleb would sprint in another direction. He wouldn't have long to do it, either. The tracker they'd gotten was good, someone who wouldn't be fooled for long by the false trail.

Needing rest, Caleb settled himself comfortably in his hiding spot to wait for the posse to pass him by, grateful that no one had thought to bring a dog. Come nightfall, he changed his high-heeled boots for the pair of moccasins he kept in his saddle-bags. It would be far easier to go quietly over the ground and to go quickly in the soft-soled shoes than it would be in his high-heeled boots. With any luck, the tracker would be focused on his boot-prints and miss the muted prints that moccasins tended to leave.

As soon as the last of the posse was beyond him, Caleb eased himself from his hiding place and struck out in the opposite direction of the posse, returning to a creek he'd recently crossed. Once in the water, he forged his way upstream, allowing the water to carry away all sign of the blood that consistently, slowly dripped from his side.

For several hours, Caleb splashed his way up the creek until the sky turned pink. Only when he was sure the posse was preparing to camp did Caleb leave the streambed. Unlike the men on horseback, however, Caleb didn't make any kind of camp for himself, but continued walking until it should be too dark to see. Only then did he allow himself to curl up under a tree and sleep, wrapped in his bedroll with his rain slicker over that against the elements.

He was too exhausted to eat anything, even if he had anything more than the last few pieces of jerky anyway. His food had mostly run out the morning before, just before the horse had taken a round to the heart and saved the fugitive cowboy's life.

Caleb awoke at first light, stiff from the cold night air and his injury. He had to force himself to rise and start walking despite the rumble in his stomach. Still, thanks to the stream he'd been following, Caleb's canteen at least was full. He allowed himself a hearty drink of water before setting out.

It would be foolish to follow the stream again, since it wouldn't be long before the posse grew wise to his plan and followed the stream themselves. With no thought of where to go, the cowboy hefted his saddle and started walking away from the stream until the cover of trees gave way to scrub brush and the three, parallel paths of an often-used roadway came under his feet. Trusting the dry, hard-packed dirt of the roadway to hide his progress, the cowboy followed that road for several hours until it ran parallel to a fence.

Five strands of razor-sharp, barbed wire told anyone who saw it that the fence meant business. Every fence post was burned with the same brand, a sideways figure-8. Caleb knew that the fence marked the edge of the 'Lazy 8' ranch, and that branding the fence-posts had been as good as a 'posted, no trespassing' sign. The fence wire had been repaired in places, sometimes recently. Some of the patches were older but all of the wires were good and tight.

There was no way he was going to sneak through that fence without leaving serious sign he'd been there. Still, Caleb knew that the safest place for him right then lay on the other side of that fence, since his pursuers wouldn't be able to follow him unless they either risked enraging the owner of that fence by cutting the wires, or going around to the nearest gate, which likely stood in front of the rancher's front door.

Being on foot as he was, Caleb didn't estimate that he had much longer before the posse caught up with him. Leaving the road meant leaving sign for the men following him but Caleb saw no other choice if he wanted to live much longer. With a weary sigh, Caleb went to find a place to cross.

It was a good hour before Caleb found a place to cross that was even remotely feasible; a place where tree-limbs overhung the fence. Eyeing the tree and the fence in question, Caleb was a little dubious about the wisdom of crossing just there but there wasn't any other place in sight and with the posse behind him, he knew he didn't have the luxury of finding another place to cross.

He'd always been good at climbing trees, so Caleb threw his gear over the barbed wire and shimmied up the trunk of the slender tree, dropping heavily to the ground on the other side. Having landed in a patch of thorn-brush, Caleb cursed and scrambled from the midst of the sticker-bushes. He'd spent the entire day getting this far, judging by the fact that the sun was once again fixing to set for the night.

Caleb looked back at his trail through the tall, deadened grass, to the obvious damage to the sticker bushes and frowned a bit. He'd made enough sign getting there- too much maybe- but Caleb wasn't too worried about it just then, at least not beyond standing the thorn-brush back up and straightening the bent canes as best he could.

Having crossed the fence, Caleb's first worry was finding a place where he could rest that was out of the range of the posse's bullets. After that, he could tend his bleeding side and find something to eat. With that in mind, Caleb set out, walking away from the fence and hoping to be out of sight before the posse found his trail.

After a short way, he noticed a dot on the edge of the horizon. Caleb continued on as the sky turned pink, then red. When the red sky had faded and a hint of stars appeared in the waning light, that dot on the horizon had grown to become the wide, peaked roof of a barn. Hoping for an easy meal and a place to hide, Caleb made for the structure as the evening shadows grew ever darker.