"Bring him."

"Why?"

"Because if he talks, somebody needs to tell us where he went."

Silas was tied loosely to another horse.

He could have resisted.

He didn't.

The riders turned west.

Abigail looked back once.

Silas met her eyes.

There was no fear in his face.

Only calculation.

And for the first time, Abigail wondered whether the man she had thought was a tired wagon driver was something else entirely.

The ride lasted several hours.

The gang traveled west toward a forgotten line shack near a shallow creek.

Nobody spoke much.

Caleb rode near Abigail.

Silas stayed toward the rear.

His wrists remained tied.

His revolver was gone.

But he had never stopped observing.

Seven men.

Six rifles.

At least four revolvers.

Nine horses.

One wounded bay gelding.

Two men who drank too much.

One young rider who looked nervous.

One older rider who kept checking behind him.

Caleb was confident.

Too confident.

Silas had learned long ago that confidence was often a man's greatest weakness.

By late afternoon, the line shack appeared.

It was little more than a weather-beaten cabin with a crooked roof, a broken trough, and a small corral.

Caleb dismounted.

"Inside."

Abigail refused.

He pushed her toward the door.

Silas was taken to the corral.

One of the younger men searched the wagon.

He found an old Winchester rifle.

He held it up.

"This thing barely looks usable."

The men laughed.

"Probably belonged to his grandfather."

Silas said nothing.

The young bandit tossed it aside.

Silas looked at the rifle.

Its metal was worn.

Its stock was scratched.

But the mechanism was clean.

Very clean.

Someone had maintained it recently.

The bandits had missed that.

They missed many things.

Inside the cabin, Caleb questioned Abigail.

"Who are you working for?"

"No one."

"Where are the rest of the papers?"

"I don't have any."

He leaned closer.

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I expect you to believe whatever you want."

Caleb slapped the table.

"You don't understand your situation."

Abigail looked directly at him.

"I understand it perfectly."

Caleb smiled.

"You'll understand it better by morning."

He left.

Abigail sat alone.

Outside, Silas heard everything.

He could not see inside, but he could hear Caleb's footsteps.

He heard the door close.

Then Abigail's voice.

"Why does Gideon Strake want me?"

Silas's eyes narrowed.

Caleb answered after a pause.

"That's not your concern."

So Gideon was definitely involved.

That meant the stakes were higher than Silas had first believed.

Near sunset, a rider arrived.

He brought a message.

Silas was close enough to hear fragments.

"Strake says..."

"...bring her directly..."

"...papers..."

"...no witnesses..."

Silas stared at the ground.

No witnesses.

That phrase mattered.

It meant Abigail was not supposed to survive the journey.

Neither was he.

The rider left shortly afterward.

Darkness settled over the prairie.

The men built a fire.

Bottles appeared.

The tension slowly disappeared.

That was another mistake.

Outlaws were dangerous when alert.

They were less dangerous when comfortable.

Silas sat near the corral fence.

He appeared half asleep.

A young bandit walked past him.

"You always this quiet?"

Silas didn't answer.

The man laughed.

"Old fool."

Silas looked at him.

The young man suddenly felt uncomfortable.

"What's your name?"

"Silas."

"Silas what?"

"Mercer."

The young man frowned.

Something about the name seemed familiar.

But then someone called him back to the fire.

The conversation changed.

One of the older men began telling a story.

"You ever hear about the South Pass Ghost?"

Another laughed.

"That old nonsense?"

"I'm telling you, he was real."

Caleb took a drink.

"How many men did he kill?"

"Six."

"Only six?"

"Maybe ten."

The men laughed.

Another said, "My brother swore he killed thirteen."

"Your brother was drunk."

"So?"

More laughter.

Silas stared into the fire.

Abigail, still inside the cabin, heard them.

"The South Pass Ghost," she called.

The men looked toward the cabin.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing."

"Sounds like a children's story."

One of the men laughed.

"You don't know the story?"

"No."

The man began explaining.

Years earlier, a mysterious gunfighter had supposedly ridden through South Pass during a winter storm. A gang of armed men had attacked him.

By sunrise, only one attacker remained alive.

Nobody knew his real name.

Some called him the Ghost.

Others claimed he was a former marshal.

Some said he was a soldier.

Others said he was an outlaw who had turned against his own gang.

The story had grown with every telling.

Silas listened.

He remembered the real version.

It had happened seventeen years earlier.

And he remembered every face.

Every gunshot.

Every body.

Every mistake.

He remembered the man who had begged for his life.

He remembered promising never to become that man again.

That was why Silas had disappeared.

He had changed his name.

He had avoided towns.

He had hauled freight.

He had repaired fences.

He had done everything possible to become ordinary.

Then Abigail Hartwell had entered his life.

And now the past had found him.

A little after midnight, Caleb entered the cabin again.

He carried Abigail's coat.

He searched it.

His fingers ran along the lining.

Then he felt something.

He cut the stitching.

A folded packet slid free.

Caleb opened it.

His face went pale.

Land deeds.

Survey records.

Payment ledgers.

Signed statements.

Names.

Dates.

Property descriptions.

Evidence that Gideon Strake had been illegally taking land from small ranchers for years.

Caleb read one page twice.

Then another.

He suddenly looked frightened.

He shoved the papers back into the coat.

Outside, Silas saw him emerge.

Caleb's confidence was gone.

He ordered the men to stop drinking.

"Wake everyone."