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the man said.
    â€œYou better come with me,” Trace said, making up his mind. The Kerrigan Ranch could use a blacksmith and a good cook. A thought struck him, and he stared into the Mexican’s eyes. “Any man can call himself a blacksmith who is not.”
    â€œThat is so, señor.” The little man reached into the sack his wife had carried and produced a foot-long bowie knife. He passed it to Trace.
    He examined the blade closely and tested the edge. “It’s a beautiful knife. The best bowie I’ve ever seen.”
    The Mexican nodded. “Any man who can forge a steel blade from a piece of raw iron is a blacksmith. You may keep it, señor. It is my gift.”
    Trace shook his head. “It is a fine gift, but it’s too much. Perhaps one day you can make me one just like it.” He returned the knife. “Your wife and the little ones can ride my horse. The Kerrigan Ranch is not far.”
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    â€œHe’s a blacksmith, Ma,” Trace said. “Every ranch needs a good blacksmith.”
    Kate glanced out the cabin window. “He looks a bit tiny to be a blacksmith.” She smiled. “‘Under the spreading chestnut tree the village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he with large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms are strong as iron bands . ’” Kate turned and frowned at Trace. “Mr. Longfellow tells us how a real blacksmith should look.”
    She turned to the window again. “His wife is quite pretty. What can she do?”
    Trace deadpanned, “She’s a cook.”
    â€œA cook?” Suddenly, Kate was interested. She could bake a mean sponge cake, but that was about the limit of her culinary skills. It was not for nothing that she so often praised the Good Lord for creating bacon and beans. “Can she cook for white folks?”
    â€œI’m sure she can. Why don’t you ask her, Ma?”
    â€œI will. What’s her name?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Kate frowned. “You didn’t ask?”
    â€œNo. It didn’t seem important at the time.”
    â€œWell, if she can cook, it’s important now, isn’t it?”
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    The Mexican woman’s name was Jazmin Salas and her husband’s name was Marco. Yes, she could cook for white folks and any other color of folks, come to that, and yes, Marco was a fine blacksmith and very good with horses.
    â€œCan you bake Queen Victoria’s favorite sponge cake?” Kate asked.
    Jazmin was hesitant, then she said, “I have never heard of it, señora.”
    Kate was pleased. “Good. Because that I will make myself.”
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    Since there was no accommodation for Kate’s extra staff, Marco Salas said they could sleep outside under the shelter of a tree or some such.
    Kate wouldn’t hear of it. “Until a suitable house for you and your family can be built, you must live in the cabin.”
    Trace pointed out that the cabin was already overcrowded.
    Kate said, “Then we must make do, mustn’t we?”
    Trace wondered what Quinn and Frank would think of that, but they were out on the range . . . with troubles of their own.

C HAPTER F IFTEEN
    After finding a half-devoured carcass of a yearling longhorn, Cobb and Quinn rode with rifles across their saddlebows and sat high in the saddle, their searching eyes constantly scanning the vast terrain around them.
    In the worst of times, the terrain west of the Pecos was a wilderness of thorn, rock, and dust. But following the wet spring and summer, it was the best of times and the flats were grassy and covered with mesquite, acacia, and whitebrush. Small trees like walnut, oak, and Mexican ash were confined to the arroyos and creek terraces where a black bear with a taste for grass-fed beef would hole up to sleep off a meal.
    â€œTracks head south toward the canyon country,” Cobb said. “Old Ephraim is no fool. But