Out in the woods, the tracker came to the end of his trail and cursed. "He's doubled back," observed the marshal unnecessarily as he turned his horse and headed back the way they'd come, taking the lead.

The tracker paused at a certain place. "He stops here, prob'ly watch us go by then head back toward de water." The rest of the posse stared morosely at the few, bent blades of forest growth that told the tracker far more than it could untrained eyes.

The tracker dismounted, leaving his horse's reins to trail on the ground, and bent over the slight depression on the ground. He scowled at the marshal, eyeing the prints on the ground. "He bleeds- but not much. Change out of him boots too, I think," the tracker continued, eyeing the prints carefully. "Boots come and moccasins leave." He chuckled humorlessly. "Make him more difficult to track; he a wily one, for sure!"

"Makes easier walking too," quipped another man, holding a rifle in one hand and sounding pleased with himself. "And since he's carrying his saddle, it shouldn't take us too long to find him."

The tracker, called only the Cajun, grunted and grabbed his horse's reins, walking as he tracked the elusive fugitive. "Blood;" he pointed out the minuscule, black stain on a leaf. When they came to the stream, the tracker crossed then returned to the center of the stream, studying the water and the rocks under them for a moment. After something muttered unintelligibly in his native tongue, the tracker said, "he not come out water."

In response to the tracker's observation, the marshal eyed his men. "Charlie, you take Dobson and Grady down that way. The rest of you, come with me. Let's find out where he left the water."

Silently, the three men turned their horses downstream and left the group, studying the vegetation that lined the banks of the stream as they searched for where their quarry had gone. It was late in the day before the trail was found again. A rider was dispatched to retrieve the remainder of the party and the hunt slowed while the successful members of the posse waited for their fellows to rejoin them.

"He only a day ahead." The Cajun pointed at the hollow in the grass where a man had spent the night. "Tomorrow, we find him."

"It's as good a place to camp as any," pointed out a member of the group. His companions eyed the sunset and agreed.

Come morning, the group doused their fire and set out. "He go slow," observed the Cajun. "No hide him tracks, neither." He mounted his horse and urged it forward, confident in his ability to follow the marks of Caleb Waite's trail, plain to his eyes yet invisible to the other members of the posse. It wasn't even noon before they reached the fence and followed it along to where he'd crossed over onto what was clearly marked as 'Lazy 8' land.

Morosely, the group eyed this latest barrier to their search. The fence was strong, a mixture of old and new wire, weathered and fresh posts. Obviously, someone maintained the fence regularly. To cut it would hamper their search, should the landowner take offense at the destroyed wire. "Well, the horses can't jump that high," observed one posse member. "We'll have to find a gate."

"Nearest one's over by the ranch house," a younger man offered. "Them Slocums don't cotton none to gates- or trespassers. I'd say it's a safe bet your boy is as good as gone, Marshal, if he done wandered onto Lazy 8 land."

Another agreed, turning his horse around. "Sure enough, you'll never be seeing him again; I'm leaving. You can't pay me enough to enter Lazy 8 lands. Folks go in and they don't come out." With that, he spurred his horse into a canter and rode back in the direction of town.

The marshal eyed the remainder of the posse. "Anyone else scared of ghosts?"

"No Sir," answered the youngest member of the posse, "but no good can come of cutting that fence. Best we go around and ask Miz Slocum for permission to search the place."

"I go." The Cajun moved his horse parallel to the fence and dropped the reins. Gathering himself on the saddle-seat, he leaped over the fence and rolled lightly to his feet on the other side. "Wait here," he told them. Leaving the other men with the horses, The Cajun set off, following his quarry through the tall grass.

The other men did as bidden, allowing their horses to graze alongside the fence while they waited for the tracker to return. After several hours, he re-appeared, loping through the grass with long strides. When he'd reached the fence, he wrapped his slicker around the bottom wire and wriggled underneath.

He didn't speak until he was mounted again, wearing his slightly damaged slicker. "Waite head toward barn, mile yonder," he explained, pointing toward where the barn in question lay.

"Then we'd best ask Miz Slocum for permission to search her barn," the marshal responded grimly and set out along the fence. "I don't cotton none to leaving a young girl like her with a fugitive like Waite in her barn overnight, especially not after what I read on that paper."

"We ain't got much choice," rejoined another. "It might be only a mile to the barn through that meadow, but as the fences lay, we won't reach the house until tomorrow afternoon."

"Then we best camp tonight an' ride in day time," the Cajun grunted.

The marshal kicked his horse into a walk. "We'll ride as long as we can," he growled, not waiting to see if the others followed.

 ∞ 

It nearly pitch-dark before Caleb managed to reach the barn. Inside, there was barely enough light to see by. Caleb stood just inside the door for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark.

Along the wall beside the door was a fat log set on legs, meant as a saddle-rack and already sporting one dusty saddle with an equally dusty blanket thrown over it for protection. Grateful for the opportunity to set his down, Caleb rested his own saddle beside the other, hung his bridle from the horn and eased the other, dusty blanket over his rig.

His own saddle blanket would serve him in good stead where he intended to hide, so he draped it over one shoulder along with his saddle-bags and bedroll. Once his saddle was concealed, Caleb perused the barn, memorizing the layout of it.

Several chickens slept on the beams above, though one or two sat in the boxes along one wall that were meant for that purpose. The horse stalls were mostly empty, housing a team of four heavy draft animals and one fat saddle-horse. Elsewhere in the barn, a cow, some pigs and a few sheep were penned up.

In all, he found it to be a rather odd assortment for a ranch stable. This menagerie was more suited to a small farm rather than a working cattle ranch that sported so oft-used a branding iron as the 'Lazy 8' appeared to be. A dog woke and growled.

Caleb sacrificed half of his last, meager piece of jerked meat to pacify it, hoping to make friends with what was obviously meant to be guarding the barn from intruders. He spoke to it in a friendly voice and stayed away from the other animals as he skirted the wall on his way toward a ladder that led to the loft above.

Caleb couldn't prevent himself from snatching an egg from the laying boxes on his way by though, even if it meant he had to poke a hole in the shell and suck the egg out raw. He was in desperate need of something to eat. Dropping the empty shell at the base of the ladder, Caleb hoped the ravaged egg would be blamed on a rat.

In the loft, Caleb wormed his way under the hay with his saddlebags and blankets and closed his eyes. He was exhausted far beyond the physical need for sleep; weary of being pursued, tired of running. His side was bleeding again from falling out of the tree and he was hungrier than he had been in a good, long while. Sparing the last bit of his dried meat for later, Caleb fell asleep.

It was dark when Caleb woke up. He didn't know how long he'd been sleeping but his back ached terribly and his side throbbed where he'd been nicked by the bullet. Hunger gnawed at his insides. Down in the barn, a lantern was lit and a woman's voice drifted up to the mow. Cautiously, Caleb eased himself out of the hay and looked down through the hay chute, careful to stay in the shadows himself.

A young woman was milking the cow, chattering at the animals affectionately as she did so. "I'm sorry I'm so late," she apologized to the cow. "Aunt Annie and Aunt Sue came down from the ridge for a visit and I still had beans to weed after they left. By the time I got supper on and the tea things washed up, it was a lot later than I wanted it to be."

She paused thoughtfully. "Still, it was good to see another human being. Don't get me wrong, Missy, I love you-all dearly, but it sure was a nice change to talk to a body that had something to say back. It's so late, I'll feed you tonight and leave the mucking out for tomorrow, I guess."

She eyed the rafters with a pointed expression, humor lacing her voice. "And don't think you can hide them eggs from me," she seemed to be speaking to the hens roosting high above her. "I fully intend to check that mow in the morning."

A frisson of dismay shot through the hidden cowboy. "Hey," growled the girl at her cow in warning. "You watch those feet, Missy!" Caleb had to grin at that, since cow was stamping her feet, threatening to upset the milk pail. One of the horses nickered. "I know, Bobbin," laughed the girl in reply. "I'll get you your hay; just let me finish with Missy, here."

Up in the hay mow, Caleb smiled wistfully at the homey scene, wishing he could belong somewhere similar and knowing that, as long as there was a price on his head, such a thing could never be no matter how pretty the girl might be. She was dressed in split skirts and a man's shirt, this girl, with a Stetson hat hanging down her back, held in place by the leather storm strap against her throat. Wisps of auburn hair escaped the single braid that held it in place.

Around her waist was buckled a gun-belt with a single holster tied down to her right leg, pigging thong over the trigger guard of a .45 revolver to keep it in place while she worked. The gun-belt had made permanent creases in her split skirts, telling Caleb she was accustomed to wearing the shooting iron and probably knew how to use it as well.

When she'd finished with the cow and stood, Caleb could see for himself, even from the dark mow, that her clothing did nothing to hide her curvy figure. In fact, rather than hiding her figure, the clothing seemed to accentuate it.

Caleb stepped back a little when she moved toward the mow, pail in hand. When she'd climbed several rungs up the ladder, she hung the milk pail on a hook away from the dog and several cats then finished her climb up the ladder to her mow.

Caleb retreated to a far corner, trusting the darkness to hide him. She moved well away from the ladder, intent on throwing hay down toward the horses below. Caleb's stomach growled and he knew he needed food, so he risked descending the ladder in order to drink deeply from her milk pail.

On the floor below, the dog started snarling at him and jumping up in an effort to reach the interloper. As soon as his thirst was slaked, Caleb hastily replaced the milk and started back up the ladder.

"Jethro," reproved the woman above him, sounding annoyed. "I'll come back down soon, you know that. Just give me a minute, hmm?" She chuckled at her dog when he quieted in response to Caleb's disappearance, not seeming to realize that the dog hadn't responded to her at all. Caleb retreated to the far corner again, liking the quiet sound of her mirth.

She was pretty, he discovered, eyeing her in the scant lantern light that came up through the hay chutes from the lantern below. A smattering of freckles splashed her nose and cheeks, the only flaw to her complexion. Her nose was pert, a small, upturned feature against high cheekbones over a generous mouth. He couldn't make out the color of her eyes but there was an over-all air of capability and intelligence to her that appealed to him.

After the girl had descended to portion out the hay she'd thrown down, Caleb went back to the hay chute to watch. She moved with an easy grace, did her chores in a practiced rhythm. Soon, she was leaving the barn with her pail of milk, a basket of eggs and the lantern, seeming none the wiser for her uninvited guest.

When she'd gone, Caleb opened the door a crack in order to relieve himself without soiling the mow or leaving his scent inside the barn where she could smell it. Caleb wasn't worried too much about how it would smell on the outside of the barn. After all, the dog already knew he was there. When the hay mow door was shut again, Caleb descended the ladder with a faint hope that she'd missed an egg.

To his surprise and delight, there were two, far away from the broody hens. Too hungry to think about what he was eating, Caleb sucked the eggs out, careful to feed the empty shells to the pigs before he burrowed back under the hay and went to sleep again. He wouldn't be able to stay long but at least- for the time being- he was safe, dry and able to rest.

Come morning, Caleb awoke long after she'd done her morning chores. Sunlight streamed through the gaps between the boards of the mow, intentionally left open by the barn's builders in order to enable the hay to dry better. Curious, Caleb eased himself out from under the hay and peeked through the cracks in the barn wall, eager to see what was around him.

Nearest the barn stood a ranch-style house rather than the farm house he'd expected to see. In front of the barn and house lay an empty corral, well-built and kept in good repair despite the lack of horses milling around inside it. Behind the barn and house, a bunkhouse and outhouse stretched beyond the main house, while what appeared to be a smokehouse stood just the other side of the barn, creating a semi-circle.

On either side of each of the paths, narrow berms of earth had been raised up to the depth of a man's waist and lined by stone walls, making long trenches. The berms had grown over long ago by native sod, making it appear as if the ground rose between the buildings naturally. Come winter, a body would be able to find the other buildings in the worst of a blizzard and if need be, the entire complex could be held off from attackers by very few people.

Just beyond the semi-circle of the buildings, a kitchen garden, small orchard, grave-yard and several other long, row-crops of some kind were all protected by neat, picket fences designed to keep the sheep, pigs and cattle from invading. It was if the ranch had been designed for extended sieges.

Most of the animals from the night before all grazed behind the house as well, kept from wandering off by promise of feed in the barn. In all, Caleb liked what he saw, though the distinct lack of other people was more than a mite worrisome. If the girl was alone here, the posse would have no trouble convincing her to hand him over.

Out in the kitchen garden, the girl was industriously applying a hoe to her neat line of peas. Next to the fence lay the dog, Jethro; the ugliest cur of a farm dog ever to walk under a Montana sky. He must have had his share of wolf in him for the lean, leggy appearance and grey, shaggy coat. The remainder appeared to be some sort of mastiff because, unlike the long, narrow head and erect ears of a wolf, the dog bore a broad head with a short, thick muzzle and ears that flopped over part way. Scars on his face, ears and shoulders bore mute testament to the dog's fighting ability. Even the dog's tail hadn't remained untouched, appearing to have about half the length of it missing.

In the garden, the girl leaned on her hoe and sighed. "Jethro, if you want to magically turn into a cowboy and help with branding this year, that'd suit me fine." Just outside the garden gate, the ugly cur thumped what was left of his tail. She sighed again and wiped away the sweat that trickled out from under her Stetson hat before she went back to hoeing the weeds out of her vegetable patch.

Caleb figured she was vigilant with that hoe and the water pail that rested near the gate, since the garden vegetables appeared to be doing well. With a pang, Caleb suddenly realized he'd slept through her morning chores. Quietly, he eased himself down the ladder to check for eggs again. Of course, there were none aside from what a couple of chickens vigorously defended.

Disappointed but having no wish to eat a half-formed chick, Caleb left the broody hens alone and returned to the mow. He'd lost some weight, he figured, and didn't have much more to lose. The last bit of jerky in his saddle-bags weighed heavy in his mind but he knew he might need that for later if he was forced to flee again. Still, he'd have no energy to run at all without something in his belly, Caleb knew, so in the end, he finally gave up and ate the jerky from his saddlebag.

All that day, Caleb watched the girl through the cracks in the barn wall, realized that she was, indeed alone in the house. She worked hard but it was immediately apparent that for everything she did, at least three other chores remained neglected. He wondered how she was going to manage cutting the calves from the herd in order to brand and castrate them for beef, who would work the ranch's remuda, breaking horses and shoeing them, who would cut the hay and haul it to the barn for the winter. Judging by the open ground he'd crossed, that hay should have been put in some time ago.

It was well before dark when she did her chores that evening. Caleb watched warily from above, for the floor of the mow had been built about the same as the walls, leaving him plenty of spaces to see through. Coming into the barn, she glanced at the saddle rack but made no comment about the extra saddle or the shift in the blanket. Instead, she milked the cow as usual; chatting to the animals all the while she did her barn chores.

"I put some ham on with potatoes and biscuits for dinner," she told the cow. "Don't tell the pigs that though, all right? Best they figure that out when I slop them tomorrow. Don't know why I always make enough for three people."

Up in the mow, Caleb held his stomach and repressed a groan, hoping she couldn't hear the hungry gurgle of it. When she'd finished milking, she eyed her dog carefully. "Jethro, I don't trust you with this pail." The dog thumped his tail but she shot him a disbelieving look, her tone teasing. "I don't want to hear it. You can too reach that hook. I think I'll hang this by the door tonight." With that, she neatly hung the pail beside the door nearest the house before heading up the ladder.

Caleb pressed himself against the wall at the far side of the ladder away from the hay chutes, hoping she wouldn't look there since all the hay was nearest the chutes anyway. To his relief, she went on about her business without glancing around. Caleb watched her silently, though his glance strayed occasionally toward the milk pail, hung safely far from his reach.

At the bottom of the ladder again, with the pail of milk in her hand, the girl eyed her mow carefully. "You know, Jethro," she remarked, "You remind me of some sorta' stray, hiding in the barn, stealing what little you think you can get away with when all you have to do is come to the kitchen and ask for your dinner. There was no need for you to go eating those eggs raw last night."

Looking confused, Jethro wagged his tail and followed her to the house. With all his heart, Caleb wished he could follow the dog. Instead, he went down to see if there were any eggs she might have missed. To his great dismay, there were none that she'd missed.

When he looked through the wall again for one last, longing look at the house before he should retire, Caleb caught sight of a cloud of dust coming along the road. Fear shot through him as the dust neared and he could see that it had been stirred up by the posse, headed for the ranch house. Carefully, he drew his sidearm and aimed, meaning to keep her safe if he could. Judging by the conversations he'd overheard recently, there were at least three members of that posse who deserved the hanging they planned for him, far more than did Caleb Waite!