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one declared.
    â€œWe’ll be right here visitin’ with Mr. Rocklin about breakin’ some horses,” Fortune replied.
    The older man with his back against the wall surveyed them. “You know my name? I don’t know yours.”
    â€œThat’s Kiowa Fox, and I’m Sam Fortune.”
    â€œSam Fortune!” one of the gamblers gasped. He and the others backpedaled to the door. “You’re Sam Fortune?” another exclaimed.
    â€œBoys, we promise to see you when we come out.” Fortune called out, “Now, go on.”
    â€œYou ain’t goin’ to see me,” the man with the waxed mustache mumbled. “Not if I kin help it.”
    Fortune and Fox scooted their chairs with backs to the wall, along each side of Rocklin.
    â€œAre you really Sam Fortune?” he asked.
    â€œYes sir.”
    â€œAnd you two want to break some horses?”
    â€œThe man at the merc said you had thirty-five to break in three weeks and would pay us two dollars a head, plus the two top picks, and all the grub we need while we’re camped up in Public Land,” Sam bartered.
    Rocklin stacked the worn blue chips scattered in the center of the table. “That wasn’t quite the arrangement . . . but I owe you something. You’ve got yourselves a deal. But how do I know you aren’t going to just up and steal the whole remuda?”
    Kiowa took a blue chip off the table and rubbed his hands together. The chip disappeared. “You’ll just have to trust us, Mr. Rocklin,” he said. He reached into Rocklin’s vest pocket and pulled out the blue chip.
    Rocklin held out his hand. “I believe a man’s only as good as his word. Mr. Fortune . . .” Rocklin offered his hand.
    Sam paused—then he took Rocklin’s hand and shook it. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
    â€œI’ll drive you up there in my wagon, but I’m not staying. I’ve got a herd to meet out on the Canadian River. But I am a little concerned how we’re going to get out of town without being bushwhacked. You didn’t exactly make friends with those men.”
    â€œThey won’t be any trouble today,” Fortune replied. “That type won’t face you in daylight. They’ll sneak up in the dark and shoot you in the back. We don’t have anythin’ to worry about.”
    â€œUntil it gets dark,” Kiowa added.

CHAPTER THREE

    Along San Francisco Creek, Public Land,
    in the Oklahoma panhandle
    The gritty, yellow dirt ground into Sam Fortune’s cheek and stacked up against his closed left eye. When his chest slammed into the corral floor, his shirt ripped at the elbow. His spur hung in the stirrup for just a moment. It felt like his left leg would be jerked off at the hip. He landed full force on his shoulder. His left hand pinned back so savagely he would have screamed, but his lower lip rolled back and spooned bitter, dry dirt into his mouth.
    Panicked hooves thundered in circles around him. Sam spit out the dirt and rolled to his back, trying to catch his breath.
    â€œAre you jist goin’ to lounge around all morning or are we goin’ to get to work?” Kiowa Fox called out from the top rail of the fifty-by-one-hundred-foot corral.
    Sam Fortune sat up and examined the blood and dirt on his elbow. “Don’t you have any respect for the dead?”
    Kiowa jumped off the rail and retrieved Fortune’s hat. He waited for the tall bay stallion to canter by, then he strolled out to the middle of the corral. “This sure is fun, ain’t it? You want me to help you to your feet?”
    â€œNo, I thought I’d just sit here and enjoy the sunset,” Sam replied.
    â€œThe sun ain’t goin’ down for another six hours.”
    â€œI’ll wait.”
    Sam struggled to his feet, brushed dirt out of his sandy blond and gray hair, and then jammed his hat back on. “I reckon that bay is broke. What