McCutchen replayed the events of the last two days in his mind, frustrated that he'd underestimated his fugitives. His face itched with four days' growth. It was the longest he had gone without shaving since his youth, and it would get longer before it was done. On top of it all, his sloppiness had gotten him outmaneuvered by an old goat roper. The setbacks goaded him.

The sun set behind the hills and darkness fell quickly, the trail dissolving into the night. If he kept pushing he might lose it, following a shadow trail. Worse yet he might alert the fugitives by broaching their camp too suddenly. He couldn't stomach anyone getting the drop on him again—not twice in a single day. But he was close, he could smell it. He hadn't been delayed when he passed the women in the wagon. Clearly the O'Brien girl was a chip off the old block, doing her damnedest to obstruct justice.

She'd showed him the shovels, all too willing to reveal that part of the plan. Less than a mile further he had spotted where they'd left the road and stomped about under a pecan tree overturning the earth everywhere. Either they really buried the marihuana there and intended to make it harder for him to dig it up, or more likely, the whole thing was a ruse. He hadn't wasted time figuring it out.

He wasn't about to stop with the seizure of the marihuana. He had to uproot the entire operation and hold the perpetrators responsible. If Bronco and his daughter were involved beyond what they swore, which they most certainly were, he could come back for them. The old man was in no shape to run, and too damned stubborn to try.

There had been a trail to follow, so he followed it. Stick to the trail, the golden rule of the golden age for the Texas Rangers. It was the one old relic he would never abandon. "Track a flea in a circus and ain't no man on earth can stand up to you and get away with it," his grandfather had told him on several separate occasions. Thoughts of the old man shamed McCutchen.

He dismounted and continued forward on foot, stooping to follow the tracks in front of him. He cursed how quickly the canyon sank into grey shadow. He had to stop. It was too risky to continue. But he kept putting one foot in front of the other, telling himself he would stop after the next one.

And then he lost it. He swore, squinting his eyes, trying against all reason to pull more light out of the air. Exposed and lost, he peered through the trees on both sides of the trail. If he had passed their camp, had they heard him? He quietly drew one of his .45s and squatted to take a closer look at the ground.

Alternately he stood, took two steps back the way he had come, and squatted to inspect the trail until to his great relief, he found it. All three horses had pushed through the brush in the same spot. Leaving Chester, he moved gingerly through the undergrowth where the snapped branches and disturbed debris made the path much easier to follow.

As soon as he could make out the steep canyon wall through the black branches he stopped. Combing every inch of the slope methodically, he looked for evidence of his fugitives. Without knowing for sure whether he had the element of surprise he couldn't risk barging in. He had to gather more information. He'd never tracked anyone he understood so little about.

 It took him almost half an hour, but after spotting the occasional shifting of their horses, he managed to distinguish three lumps lying on the ground nearby, under an overhanging rock. It was almost completely dark in the canyon, but they hadn't seen him. Now the dark would be his ally.

He sat down with his back against a tree, deciding to wait another couple of hours until the night was at its darkest. He wanted his fugitives to be good and groggy when they woke with his .45s in their faces. If they decided to struggle then, well, so be it.

Darkness engulfed the canyon floor, the moon blocked by steep canyon walls. Soft sounds of sleep echoed gently off the overhanging rock as the horses and the forest rested in stillness. Exactly at the night's apex the eyes flickered open again, shifting slightly, gathering information. With a slithering silence they inched forward from the pitch black of the cave toward the fresh night air.

Whisking open and shut several times, the yellow eyes finally emerged, embedded deep in the skull of a pallid, skeletal figure that took several seconds to expand to its full height. Moments later several other grotesque figures emerged from the small opening, each with glowing, yellow eyes and pale flesh. Clothed in shimmering, slick hides clinging tightly to their bodies, they appeared in the open as sparkling ghosts with firefly eyes. Responding as one being to an unspoken cue, they unsheathed a dozen luminescent knives of crystal, each a foot long.

 An angry hissing and glowing light startled the sleeping fugitives as cold boney hands assaulted them from every angle. The crossbow and Spencer Repeater disappeared before Nena and Muddy could reach for them. Chancho tore at a grasping hand, blocking a luminescent blue knife as it slashed for his throat. Instead it bit into the thin skin of his forearm and struck bone. He kicked his assailant in the chest as it dragged him toward the cave opening, but his boot deflected off the tough, slippery hide.

Muddy bellowed in anger. Clutching two of the creatures in headlocks, he bashed their skulls together. But the glittering skins combined with flashing movements dazed him. Twisting wildly with his elbows extended at head height, he lost balance. Hitting him low, several attackers lifted him and drove him into the ground.

He crashed down with a thud that took his breath and left him stunned. Suddenly Nena's voice cut the night air with piercing clarity, "Neemwa Ihkweea, Ehtamwa Ihkweea! Hear me, see me!" She prayed for protection for her people in her native tongue, and instantly the assault stopped, their attackers backing away slowly.

A gravelly voice answered her, speaking in a similar Kickapoo tongue, "You are one of the people?"

Chancho scurried toward the others on hands and knees while Muddy struggled to draw a full breath. Nena answered calmly, "We are of the people, yes."

"But your friends are not, he is black and—"

"You are white." Nena responded curtly. Several of the attackers looked back and forth at each other before silently coming to agreement.

"We must go inside. You will come with us." They began to close on them, Chancho jumping to his feet. "What are they saying? What's—"

"Fsscht!" Nena silenced him and rose to her feet as well. She snarled at the one who spoke for the others. "We will enter only as guests, not prisoners."

He showed no sign of emotion. "Of course. We bring no one into our home unless they be a guest. The rest we kill." This time he waited politely for her, understanding that the others could not speak their language.

Nena turned to help Muddy up and spoke to him and Chancho in English. "We have been invited inside, as friends. It would be seen as a rejection of friendship if we refused."

Chancho grew pale and pointed toward the tiny cave opening. "Go in there?"

"Otherwise, they will most likely kill us."

He dusted himself off and checked the bleeding from his arm before looking around at the strange yellow eyes gazing back at him. He shrugged it off. "Well, if you put it that way. At least I don't have to worry about fitting through there with my sombrero."

Muddy put his hand on Nena's arm. "What about the horses? We need them."

Nena turned toward the leader and indicated the horses with a point of her chin. He likewise gestured to those next to him who trotted obediently over to the horses. "We have a secure place for them. They will be fed and watered."

McCutchen had almost fallen asleep when he heard a struggle coming from the fugitive's camp. He shifted his position for a better view, but all he could see were faint flashing lights—glowing apparitions. The strangeness of the sight chilled him. Then a woman's voice pierced the night with a frightening urgency.

He tried to get closer, but he couldn't risk giving away his position. He strained his eyes until, for a moment, he thought he saw several figures standing in the shelter of the overhanging rock. Then they were gone, leaving him wondering if the whole thing had been a dream. A few minutes after the last signs of movement he slipped quietly from the brush.

Footprints mingled and overlapped so badly it was impossible to tell their number, but certainly more than three. And blood. A trail of blood led toward the mouth of a small cave. McCutchen drew his second Colt and advanced on the opening, a storm of thoughts circling in his head. Who the hell lived in a place like this? And what had they done with his fugitives? What was he going to do now if he found them?

Before he could think his way clear of the questions he crouched and ducked his head inside the cave, leading with his shiny .45s. A heavy thud reverberated from the recesses and he froze, begging his eyes to adjust to the brand new depth of darkness inside. A skittering across the cave floor grew louder in his ears. He stretched the surface space of his eyes until they were white saucers in the blackness.

Closer. The skittering echoed in the small space, impossible to locate the exact source. He had barely entered the opening of the cave. Now instinctively backing out, his eyes caught a flicker of a shadow flying toward him. He flashed his pistols, but the movement caught him in the hand before he could react. A second quickly followed the first.

Two sets of razor sharp teeth clutched his hand in a searing pain, grinding his bones like a pair of reciprocating bear traps. Stumbling backwards, he flung himself toward the opening. He threw his guns out into the night ahead of him, but he couldn't shake the monsters clinging to his left hand.

Violently he clipped the top of his head on the low rock at the mouth of the cave and pitched out of the opening. He slammed his hand down on the rocks as he fell, in a vain attempt to free himself from the beasts that seized him. In the dim light of the night air he finally beheld his attackers, two black-shelled beetles, each almost a foot long.

 Terrifying in size, the insects were ripping his hand apart in their claws. He seized a loose rock. Crashing it down on the back of one, the shell split and gushed a sticky green ooze. The dying insect pitched with seizure, releasing a shrill cry. McCutchen raised the rock again, but before he could bring it down the remaining beetle ripped his ring finger from his hand and scurried into the shelter of the cave.

"Good God!" McCutchen clutched his wounded hand, staring in shock where the finger had been moments before. He gathered himself and struggled to his feet with difficulty, pulling his good hand away from his head covered in blood. "If that ain't a good God damn." He panicked. "My hat." His grandfather's Stetson rested in a heap next to the mouth of the cave.

Returning his Colts to their holsters, he inched toward the opening which had transformed into a yawning nightmare, a blackness within the blackness of night. But nothing on the whole damn planet would separate him from his hat, without killing him first. He snatched it and staggered into the woods toward the first aid kit he kept in Chester's saddle bags.