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far as Falcon knew, might be at the little settlement of Pueblo, but more likely was as far away as Castle or Denver. Both were a long way from where he was now, and if there was any law to the east it was even farther—somewhere over in Kansas.
    Like most men of his time, Falcon MacCallister respected the law and those who kept it, but recognizedits limitations. Law was at its best in cities and settlements—places where people gathered to make their homes. Where there were no clusters of people,the basis of taw—the fundamental law of right and wrong—was still the will of any man who drew the line, who decided what he would tolerate and what he would not.
    And if that man was known as a gunslick, thought by many to be no better than the outlaws who rode the far places, that made no difference. Public opinionwas the stuff of politics, not of fundamental law. That was always, even in the settled places, the functionof judgment—the judgment of the individual. Despite the antics of lawyers and politicians, the basisof practical law was still a matter of simple right and wrong.
    â€œIf it isn’t yours, don’t take it,” was the stuff from which law was made. “If it isn’t true, don’t say it.” And “If it isn’t right, don’t do it.”
    The momentary little tendril of smoke he’d seen at first light might have been ten miles away, or fifty. But it had been east, in the direction he wanted to go, so he headed that way.
    Somewhere ahead of him, six men had a wagon that didn’t belong to them, and it was stained with the blood of innocent people who didn’t deserve what was done to them.
    And that just wasn’t right.

THREE
    The land office of the Kansas Pacific Railroad occupiedtwo rooms on the second floor of the Waring Building. It offered a bay-window view of Market and Dominion Streets. Beyond were the Opera House, the new Silver Belle, presently under construction, and a panorama of commercial buildings with a sprawling town of fine houses, cabins, avenues, and placer digs in the background and the high mountainsbeyond.
    James Lowell Horner stood in the corner window well, where three sets of double-hung panes overlookedthe teeming streets below. To the man behindhim, standing beyond a fine maple table that served as Horner’s desk, the railroad magnate was a bulky silhouette—a barely contained storm cloud of a man, ready to break loose in lightning and thunder at any moment.
    From his posture it was obvious that the Kansas Pacific’s project chief had turned away to conceal his anger. For a long moment he stood so, breathing deeply. Then he said, “Say that again, Wylie. I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”
    Wylie took a deep breath himself, and invited himselfinto one of Horner’s high-backed chairs. “It was a trap,” he said. “Brockman and his aides were killed and robbed by the very men they hired ... we hired ... to protect them. Their bodyguards.”
    Horner stood silently for another long moment, then turned, his composure recovered. An expressionlessmask as perfect as the huge waxed mustache that hid his massive jowls from nose to ears. Only in his hooded eyes were the fires of rage. “You’re sure?”
    â€œVery sure, sir.” Wylie indicated the open valise on the table. It was filled to the rim with papers, telegraph messages, and various other documents. “It’s all there,” he said. “The credential and backgroundinquiries we conducted on the Pasco SecurityAgency, the reference letters from eastern banks, even a note from President Hayes. Sam Brockman was meticulous, sir. The only problem is, the man we interviewed and hired as special guard wasn’t HiramPasco. He was an impostor. Pasco is probably dead. Our ‘Mr. Pasco’ and his so-called ‘personal security experts’ were phonies.”
    Horner’s exasperated sigh was like the