He squinted across the rolling valley floor, the wind and dust attacking his face in a series of gritty, burning bursts. The baleful heat of an early afternoon sun sent wavering illusions of motion into his brain from a vista in which nothing actually moved for mile upon baking, sun-drenched mile. He felt Thunderbolt sigh in protest, but he paid no attention; his eyes were riveted on a lonely stand of cottonwood brush that marked the sole source of water across the endless wasteland below him. He stared thoughtfully, noticing the brushwood bending with the breeze. Except for one detail, all seemed normal; but the brush was bending against the wind. He settled back in his worn saddle and reached for the Winchester rifle that hung from its side. The die had indeed been cast, and he was ready. He urged Thunderbolt into a slow lope down the long sloping flanks of the butte, the rifle ready across his lap, his steely gray eyes alert. He was ready. He would come out of this day alive. If he didn't, it wouldn't matter anymore anyway...