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cold tonight. But those boulders are hot from the day’s sun, and they’ll stay warm for hours. Put your back to one. Before you turn in, dig a little wallow—it’ll help keep your body heat trapped under your blanket.”
    â€œYou know,” Sitch remarked as the two men shared a smoke, “Iron Mike Scully is going to fart blood when he sees what you did to his bootlick.”
    â€œI know that,” Fargo replied. “That’s why I roughed him up. Best way to cure a boil is to lance it. I don’t pussyfoot once I know who my enemies are. Besides, men make stupid mistakes when they get boiling mad.”
    â€œIt’s the odds that make me nervous,” Sitch admitted, palming the wheel of his newly acquired six-shooter. “Sheriff Vance can’t be a coward—not if the Texas Rangers took him on. But he’s well past his salad days and mostly seems concerned about his digestion.”
    â€œHe won’t likely be much use,” Fargo agreed. “He’s counting out the days until he gets his pension. But I was smart to talk him into deputizing me—he knows who I’m after, and he knows Scully and his bunch are criminal trash. I think Vance is mostly honest, and so long as we don’t get too obvious with our tactics, we’ll have his blessing to put the kibosh on those red sashes.”
    Fargo hesitated for a few minutes before adding, “But there’s some questions I want answered first. And a woman I hope we can find.”
    Sitch popped the cylinder of the Remington out and shook the loads into his hand. Then Fargo heard the metallic click of the hammer striking over and over on empty chambers.
    â€œKnock that shit off,” he snapped. “You never dry-fire a weapon like that. It can damage the firing pin.”
    â€œI didn’t know that.”
    â€œDoesn’t seem to be much you know when it comes to anything useful, except that you’re some pumpkins with that whip. I’ll give you that. Have you ever fired a handgun?”
    â€œYeah, I won an old hogleg pistol in a card game back in Arkansas. I use to plink at targets, and I did all right under twenty yards or so from the target.”
    â€œMost shootouts with a short gun are close range, so that’s not too bad.”
    The men finished their smoke in silence, Fargo enjoying the warmth radiating from the boulder he had selected.
    â€œFargo,” Sitch spoke up, “do you feel safe enough now for another joke?”
    â€œAll right, but if it isn’t funny I’ll shoot you.”
    â€œThis freighter gets to a town and goes on one helluva bender, see. He gets blind drunk, and the next thing he knows he’s waking up on the ground outside of a saloon, all busted up, teeth missing, nose broke, his head throbbing like an Indian war drum. The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is these tiny little turds dancing in a circle around him.
    â€œâ€˜Hello, there!’ one of the turds sings out. ‘We’re living shit, and some buffalo hunter just kicked us out of you.’”
    Fargo laughed appreciatively. “That’s not too bad,” he admitted. “I’m glad I won’t have to waste a bullet on you.”
    Sitch stood up and walked out past the boulders to urinate. Fargo felt his eyelids growing heavy. Suddenly:
    â€œJesus Christ and various saints! Fargo, come see this!”
    Fargo saw it the moment he cleared the ring of boulders: out in the sky, in the direction of Rough and Ready, what appeared to be the ghostly phenomenon that the old hostler Peatross had mentioned earlier—an eerie swirling of colored lights: red, yellow, purple, amber. They wavered and shimmered, one changing into the other.
    â€œThe hell?” Sitch exclaimed. “You ever seen anything like that?”
    â€œI’ve seen the northern lights and they look something like that. But this is a lot closer. I’ve seen rainbows do