October 1876

The little girl at the piano was the first to see him ride over the ridge and down into the Montana valley that was her home.

"Rider coming, Mother, leading a packhorse," she said, as she continued to play.

Sarah Hadley walked to the window beside the piano and looked across the wide expanse of grass. The rider was far enough away to still be only a dark silhouette against the pale brown of the autumn grass, but the young woman's breath caught momentarily as she watched him. The rider sat his horse like the cavalry officer her late husband had been. How many times, she wondered, had she watched Jonathan ride across that grass in just such a manner, leading a packmule in from a hunting trip or from a trip to town for supplies?

"Keep practicing, Hannah; he is still a long way off."

Sarah left the window, went out onto the wide porch on the front of the house and stood by one of the massive columns that supported the balcony above. She looked again to measure the rider's progress then turned toward the barn and corrals to look for Caleb Stohr, the one man who had remained on the ranch through the trouble of the past two years. She saw him working his way around the corrals and the creek, approaching the house out of sight of the coming rider. As he reached the side of the house, she moved to the end of the porch to speak to him.

"Caleb, do you suppose he is looking for work?" she asked. "This time of year, he might be looking for a place to spend the winter."

"Could be, Miz Hadley," Caleb agreed. "But he's no broke an' out of work cowpoke, not leadin' a packhorse loaded down with supplies, prospector maybe." He paused a moment, then added. "Ma'am, until we've had a look at him, might be wise not to let on that I'm the only man around the place."

"Caleb, we desperately need help with the work, but I have learned to trust your judgment of men as much as Jonathan did. I know you will not lie to him, and I would not expect you to, but if he is looking for work and you like the looks of him, we should take him on."

"Yes, Ma'am," he said. "I'll wait down by the barn, an' I'll have that old Spencer near to hand."

Caleb left her to retrace his route around the creek and corrals. As Sarah turned back toward the column where she had been watching by the steps, Hannah came out of the house. The little girl stood next to her mother and watched the rider work his horses down the slope toward the beaver pond in front of the house.

"He looks like Father coming home, doesn't he, Mother?" she said.

"Yes, honey, he does. He sits a horse the same way, but that is not your father."

"I know, Mother, but I wonder who he is."

"We shall find out when he gets here. Now go back to your practicing until he does."

During the long ride across the valley, the rider had taken in everything to be seen, the wide, meandering creek, the stand of aspens surrounding the beaver pond, the evergreen forest climbing the mountain foothills beyond the house, bunkhouse and barn. The buildings were well built and in good repair, as were the fences, but it was the house that drew his attention, a large white structure that would have been expected on a southern plantation before the Civil War, but seemed somehow out of place on a cattle ranch many miles from the nearest neighbor. He stopped at the creek before he crossed to let his horses drink, then he rode on to the woman waiting on the porch at the top of the front steps. He was surprised by her youth and beauty, no more than thirty, he thought, probably several years younger, her rich, dark hair shining in the afternoon sun, a look of sadness touching the brilliance of her blue eyes. Her manner reminded him of another young lady standing on a porch just such as this one.

"Howdy, Ma'am," he said, as he removed his wide-brimmed grey hat. "Ran into a couple of riders a few days back, down on the Powder River, said you might be looking for someone to hire on. Who should I talk to?"

"Caleb is down at the barn," she told him. "You will need to talk to him."

"He your foreman?" the man asked.

"No, sir," she said. "My foreman was killed several months ago."

"Accident?" he asked.

"No, he was murdered, shot in the back. We do not know why, and he was not the first. Does that change your mind about wanting to work here, sir?"

Sarah watched his face for signs of surprise and saw none. His faded blue eyes were steady, the weathered face never changed. He was older than she had expected him to be, some years past forty, but his straw-colored hair had only begun to show white at the temples, and she sensed a solidness about him, a strength of character that was both impressive and somehow disquieting.

"No, ma'am, the riders I met spoke some of the trouble you've had. But I need a place to winter, and it's a little late in the year to be looking for work, so I thought you might be willing to take me on."

"Then ride down to the barn and talk to Caleb," she said.

As he was about to replace his hat, Hannah stepped out onto the porch. She shared some features with her mother, but her hair was blonde, beginning to turn light brown, and her eyes were large pools of dark brown.

"Good afternoon, young lady," he said. "Was that you I heard playing the piano as I was riding across your valley?"

"Yes, sir."

"You play well," he told her. "Much better than I did at your age."

"You play the piano?" Hannah asked.

"I did," he told her. "It's been some time, though. I'm out of practice now."

He replaced his hat and turned his horses toward the barn.

"Mister," Hannah called out. "What's your name?"

He stopped the horses and turned in his saddle to look back at her.

"Folks call me Shiloh."


Caleb had watched from the shadows inside the barn door facing the house. As Shiloh led his packhorse toward the barn, Caleb leaned his Spencer carbine against the barn wall and stepped out where he could be seen.

"You Caleb?" Shiloh asked, as he looked at the lean old man.

"Yep,"

"Folks call me Shiloh. The lady said I should talk to you about hiring on."

"I 'spect you know somethin' about cattle."

"Worked cattle a few years down in Texas," Shiloh told him. "Then signed on with a trail herd headed for Kansas. Drew my pay there and decided to have a look at the country hereabouts."

"Miz Hadley tell you we've had trouble on the ranch?"

"She did, but I'd already heard it from a couple of riders I met down on the Powder. Part of the reason I came this way-looking for work this late in the season."

"Could get you shot."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Shiloh admitted.

"Might be the last," Caleb added dryly.

"Reckon I'll let God worry about that."

"You a preacher?"

"Nope, just a believer."

"You object to work that cain't be done from the back of a horse?" Caleb asked. "Still got hay an' wood to cut fer the winter."

"I'm willing to do whatever needs to be done."

"Then I reckon you're as big a fool as I am," Caleb grinned. "You're hired."

"Thanks," Shiloh said with a grin of his own. "Appreciate the confidence."

"Let's get yore gear off them horses an' turn 'em out to graze. I usually keep some saddle stock in the barn durin' the night, plenty of empty stalls if you want to bring yores in after supper. We eat at the big house, by the way, an' Miz Hadley is a very good cook-the young'un is gettin' to be"

"Glad to hear it-I've had about enough of my own cooking to do me." Shiloh said, as he eased himself out of the saddle and onto the ground.

"How much of what's on the packhorse will need to go to the bunkhouse?" Caleb asked.

"Not much, most of it's food for the winter, bacon, beans, flour, salt, sugar, coffee, some airtights-peaches, tomatoes and the like. A sack of potatoes, a sack of ear corn and some canned milk. Tools I bought in case I had to build a winter shelter. The tools can be stored here in the barn, reckon the food should go up to the kitchen-no sense in letting it go to waste, and it might save a cold trip or two in bad weather."

"Miz Hadley will prob'ly be willin' to pay you fer it," Caleb told him.

"Well, whatever she thinks is fair." Shiloh said, as he pulled his rifle from its scabbard and stripped the rig off of his saddle horse.

"I'll put yore saddle in the tackroom, while you start on yore packhorse," Caleb offered.

"Thanks."

Shiloh had the tools unloaded from the packsaddle and had stacked a couple of sacks next to his bedroll, saddlebags and rifle when Caleb came out of the tackroom.

"This stuff will go to the bunkhouse," Shiloh said, pointing to the pile surrounding his bedroll. "Any place special I should put the tools."

"That axe an' saw might come in handy at the woodshed, might as well keep everythin' together. Been a long time since I've seen anybody use an adze. You any good with it?"

"I get by when I have to; man that taught me was as good as anyone I've ever seen." Shiloh said. "The rest of what's on the packsaddle should go to the kitchen."

"Why don't I take that up while you get moved into the bunkhouse?" Caleb asked.

"Okay," Shiloh agreed. "Matter which bunk I take?"

"Nope, be just you an' me," Caleb told him. "I have a room to myself, an' there's a room fer the foreman. It's empty now that Jim's dead, might as well move in there fer the winter. Ain't likely Miz Hadley will find anyone else afore spring, prob'ly not until we figure out who's doin' the killin' an' put a stop to it."

"You got any ideas on that?" Shiloh asked.

"Somebody with a good rifle." Caleb said. "Best I can figure, the shot that killed Jim came from seven or eight hunnerd yards off. Not many rifles will reach that far with any accuracy, an' it takes a good marksman behind the rifle."

"Was he robbed?" Shiloh asked.

"Not that a body could tell," Caleb said. "Had a little cash on him-never carried much. His revolver was still in the pommel holster on his saddle. It was roundup; his rifle was in the chuckwagon with everybody else's."

"Killer leave any tracks or sign, casing brass or the like?"

"I found where he shot from, mighty little sign-looked to me like he used a low limb for a rifle rest. If he did, he's a taller man than me, prob'ly taller than you. An' I think I found where he tied his horse. Not much sign there either, some pressed down grass but no hoof prints. Found a few strands of sheep's wool-made me think he might have wrapped his horse's hooves with sheepskin to hide his tracks. I followed what little trail there was into the rocks then lost it completely."

"Was Jim the third man killed?"

"Unless you count the Colonel," Caleb told him. "Looked like his horse throwed him. That could've been a genuine accident, an' it happened more'n a year before any of the others."

"The Colonel? Who was that?"

"Colonel Hadley, Miz Hadley's husband. He was a Union cavalry officer in the war. Jim an' some of the original hands rode with him back then an' still called him by his military rank, so we all did."

"Anything make you think it wasn't an accident that killed him?" Shiloh asked.

"He was as good a man on a horse as any I've knowed, broke his own string of broncs. Sure, somethin' could've spooked his horse, an' any man can be throwed, but it just didn't feel right to me-him landin' headfirst on the only rock around an' bashin' in the back of his head. It'd rained before we got to him-backtrailed his horse when it showed up at the barn without him-so the tracks wasn't clear, but it looked to me like there could've been more'n one horse an' maybe some boot prints-like he stopped to talk to somebody. No other reason I can think of fer him to stop there an' no real reason to get off his horse. If somebody else was there, it had to be somebody he knew an' trusted. The Colonel was still too much a soldier to turn his back on a stranger."

"How were the others killed?"

"Purty much the same as Jim, not from as far away, but far enough to need that same long shootin' rifle an' unusual skill."

"Anything to connect the places where they were killed?"

"Don't think so," Caleb said.

"And nothing stolen?"

"Nope."

"The ranch been missing cattle?"

"Well, we had the worst winter anybody still alive can remember, so we lost some cattle to the cold, but the tally on calves fer them that survived was pretty close. Any stock missin' that weren't killed by the cold could've been got by wolves, maybe an Injun huntin' party or even a cowboy ridin' the grubline."

"Anybody tried to buy the ranch since the Colonel died, or tried to scare folks off before the killing started?"

"Not that's been told to me."

Well, there has to be a reason," Shiloh said. "If we can figure out why, then maybe we can figure out who."

Caleb picked up the lead rope and started the packhorse toward the house, while Shiloh gathered up his gear and headed for the bunkhouse. When Caleb reached the back of the house, he tied the packhorse to a hitching ring mounted on a post at the edge of the back porch steps and started up the steps. Before he reached the door to knock, Sarah stepped through the door to meet him.

"What is all this?" she asked, as she looked at the packhorse.

"Winter food supplies Shiloh bought in case he weren't able to find work," Caleb said. "He even had tools to build him a cabin. But he figured we ought to go ahead an' eat the food rather than let any of it go bad. An' I ain't learned to mind my own bizness. I told him you'd prob'ly be willin' to pay him fer it, since meals are usually a part of his wages."

"So you hired him?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," Caleb told her. "I liked him right off."

"Well, I told you to make the decision about him, and you were right that I should pay him for the food," she said. "Will you help me carry it into the root cellar?"

"Yes ma'am."

Sarah was surprised when she found the sacks with potatoes and ears of corn.

"Well, either he is a good cook, or he likes to eat better than the average cowboy."

"Ma'am, he ain't no average cowboy. That there's an uncommon smart man, an', while he didn't say so, I think he come here a purpose, 'cause he knowed you was a woman with a child an' in need of help. I don't know why exactly, but I've got a feelin' about him. He sits a horse like the Colonel did, wears a Colt's revolver an' carries a Winchester rifle like they was a part of him. I'd say he fought in the war, prob'ly cavalry like your husband was an' most likely an officer as well. When I mentioned the trouble we've been havin', he didn't so much as bat an eye, but he knew exactly what questions to ask. An' he's a believer. Yes, ma'am, I think the Good Lord done sent us just the kind of help we need right about now."

"I hope you are right, Caleb," she said. "Let us continue to pray. God knows we need help with the work around here. But I would hate to have another man die trying to help me hold on to the ranch."

Caleb hoisted flour and sugar sacks onto his shoulders then looked back at her.

"When I told him he could get hisself shot just for hirin' on, he said it wouldn't be the first time. When I suggested it could be the last, he just said we ought to let God worry about that. Sounded like good advice to me."