Tex followed. Not with hate — with patience. At the summit, under a bone-white moon, he found the outlaw trembling beside a crevice.

At dusk, Tex found the Mesa del Diablo. And waiting for him there, silhouetted against the firelight, were five riders.

He was tracking a ghost: El Cuervo, a renegade who had burned three homesteads and left a trail of crosses instead of graves.

Tex swung into the saddle, tipped his hat, and pointed west.

Tex smiled coldly. “Those are fair odds.”

“Willer,” a voice rasped. “You should’ve stayed in Carson City.”