“Occasionally, an old prospector’s cabin, abandoned to the winds and the mountain lions, rose up out of the gravel, its brush roof either fallen inside the cabin walls or sprouting tall, brown sod and dried-up flowers.He was three-quarters of the way down the mountain when the brow of the ridge pulled back, revealing the entire village nestled in the canyon. Hawk hunkered down behind a dilapidated horse stable and cast his gaze down the ridge.From here he could see mainly rooftops. Here and ther...e on the boulder-strewn slopes flanking the main street and the tiny square, wan lamplight shone in shack windows.Main Street itself was dark, starlight playing across facades.Hawk squeezed his Henry rifle in his gloved right hand, ran his left across his jaw. Since Palomar Rojas had informed him of the gringo lawmen’s sudden appearance in Bedlam, dread and frustration had gnawed at his gut. It seemed impossible that anyone could have tracked him here, but if anyone could—if there was anyone so determined—that man was D.W.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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