The trail Moose and his companions followed, led them to Buzzard Gulch and they followed it until they came upon the spot where Sheriff Orr had been tortured. Moose soon spotted the sheriff's right big toe which the killer had shot off. It was considerably mangled and covered with ants. After scouting about somewhat, Moose grunted laconically, "Well, it appears that our killer mighta had help. There's tracks of five horses here, two shod, and three unshod. The two shod would be the tracks of the fella that brought the sheriff to the reverend's house, and the other, would be the sheriff's horse. The unshod tracks would be Indians, most likely Comanche since the Apache rarely use horses and the Southern Cheyenne and Kiowa hardly ever range this far south."

Colt Ballard scurried down from the rim of the gully some twenty feet above, slipping on his way down and almost losing his balance a time or two in his haste. "Well Murdoch, I figure them unshod pony tracks were not with the killer. I could tell that they sat their horses fer awhile atop the rim."

"Yeah, but were they standin' up there watchin' or standin' up there waitin'?" asked Moose.

Jack Duane, who just returned from the rim after examining it himself replied, "They were watching. Their horses were facing the sight down here the whole time they were up on the rim. Had they been waiting on the killer, at least some of the tracks would show that the riders were looking south, down the gully, in order to see the killer coming."

"Not only that, but if they had planned ta meet our killer here, they like as not woulda known he was headin' ta this spot, an they'd a waited in the gully itself, maybe postin' one of their own up on the rim just ta keep an eye out. Also, I didn't notice any shod horse tracks anywhere's up around that top comin' in from the town." Ballard added.

"No, you wouldn't. Our bushwhacker brought the sheriff inta the gulch about three miles back, not too far up from the place he came out when he was bringin' his little surprise ta the Reverend." Moose said, after spitting a huge glob of tobacco juice into the dust. "I figure they came down around the time our man lit the fire between the Sheriff's legs. The tracks show that they got off their horses, but never got within more'n a yard of Orr. If'n they'd been with 'em, they'd a damn sure joined in on the festivities. They didn't, they just bummed tobacco off our killer an sat back an watched." Murdoch replied.

"One thing's fer sure, them Comanches knew that killer well enough ta wander in, watch the weenie roast, an ask 'em fer tobacco instead a just waltzin' down an takin' it, along with his scalp as well. Whoever it was, they were either compadres a his or else they were afraid of 'em." Ballard noted.

Moose gazed at the two Tanner gunmen in perplexity. They both seemed genuinely interested in getting to the truth of the matter. He was highly suspicious of Tanner, who seemed determined to pin the murder upon Nighthawk even when the facts pointed another direction. He had expected both Tanner gunmen to attempt to contradict whatever he'd found and related to the Lieutenant-- since that would be Tanner's own tactics. Yet, here they were, coming to the same conclusions he himself had. He wondered if perhaps Tanner had told them to play along, yet at the same time, his natural instincts, which had served him well in dealing with all sorts of criminal mind-sets in the past, told him otherwise.

"Well, do you two think Nighthawk did it?" Lieutenant McCormick asked, addressing Ballard and Duane.

"Nope." said Duane.

"Hell Lieutenant, it damn sure don't look like it now, but then who the hell else could'a had a reason, and who else besides Indians would'a cut 'em up an roasted 'em like that?" Ballard asked.

Murdoch just spat tobacco juice in the dirt and said, "Shit! Maybe you boys oughta ask yer boss."

"Hell Murdoch, far as I know, Tanner doesn't have anyone working for him that's capable of that kind of butchery. Portalis is mean enough, but he wouldn't have the skill or patience. I'll tell you one thing, I won't work for a man who would have anything to do with something like this just to further his own ends." Duane said, although by now, he was beginning to wonder.

"Shit, Moose, even if Tanner does see yer point, an don't wanna admit it, the only reason, far as I can see, is cause Fogg's got a deed ta part of his land, an he wants Fogg outa the picture. But I cain't see him stoopin' ta somethin' like that." Ballard added, seemingly sincerely.

"We'll see." Murdoch said then continued in a more enthusiastic and curious tone, "How come you boys are co-operatin' like this. Like as not, not too long from now, we'll be lookin' down gun barrels at each other, and I figure that both of ya'll know it. Also, if ya'll don't mind tellin' me, how'd you two learn ta read sign like that?"

Duane spoke for both of them in answering the first question saying, "We're gunmen, we hire out to the highest bidder. Simple as that. True, we may end up swappin' lead with you or Fogg or both, but that's what we're hired to do. Tanner don't like you, or you him. I don't care right now except that Tanner pays me, and anyway, we're not at war, yet. Far as I know, Tanner wants the killer as bad as you. You fight Tanner, you fight me. Right now, Tanner ain't told us to fight you, just to gather the facts. If he had of, I'd give you a fair chance, but you'd be dead."

Duane then alleviated some of the tension by smiling. He continued. "Speaking for myself though, My grandfather lived with the Shawnee for several years. He knew Tecumseh and fought along side of him in the war of 1812 with the British against the Americans. He married Tecumseh's half sister, whose mother was English. My grandmother, after bearing my father, was killed in the war of 1812. My grandfather went to Texas, remarried, and got involved in the revolution. He survived San Jacinto, and was rewarded a deed of 4,000 acres where he started a ranch. He taught my father everything he had learned from the Shawnee about tracking. Of course, the terrain was different, but the principles were the same. My father, after having two sons and one daughter, decided to become a Texas Ranger. He made quite a name for himself back then, but he learned a lot tracking Comanche and taught me everything he knew."

"Wait a minute. Was your dad Captain Dirk Duane by any chance?" Moose asked.

"The one and only." Duane answered, almost smiling.

"Well, I reckon that explains it. I knew him and rode with him a time or two. He was one hell of a wizard with a pistol in them days. I remember hearin' bout when he got bushwhacked by them Mexican bandits just above the border. Hell, he took down four of 'em afore they got 'em. He was a hell of a man, I'll say that fer 'em." Moose wanted to ask, "What happened to you?," but refrained from so doing.

"Yeah, he was at that. He taught me how to use my guns, and read, write, and taught me philosophy as well."

"I reckon he taught ya too much a that phee-losophy shit. Hell, yer always walkin' around with yer head in the clouds an a sour look on yer face like ya just got through swallowin' a horse-turd or sumethin'. Far as I'm concerned, all that Phee-losophy's just a waste a time. Hell, I'll bet ya cain't even remember the last time yer timber weren't limber!" Ballard chided, and McCormick laughed in spite of himself.

One of these days, Colt, your tongue will earn you a sound beating!." Duane growled.

"How' bout you, Ballard, if ya don't mind my askin'?" asked Murdoch.

Ballard's eyes widened in feigned surprise as he glanced down at his fly and said, "Me? Why hell yes, I can remember. Why just about a week ago I was in Fort Stockton at the Royal Saloon and there was this here purtty gal name a Janet Douglass. Well..."

"He was abruptly cut off by Jack Duane, who, laughing, in spite of himself said, "You damn tow-headed idiot, he's asking about your tracking experience, not the last time you had a stiff pec..., well, whatever!"

Ballard chuckled mischievously and grinning said, "Sorry Moose, couldn't resist. Naw, my father spent a few years as a free-trapper, but when the beaver ran out, he started hirin' out ta the wagon trains as a guide an scout, seein to it that they got safely to Oregon or California. He met my mom, on one of them trains that was bound for Oregon Territory. My mother was the daughter of Norwegian immigrants on that train. Well, they fell in love, an in 1847, an after paw got her in a family way, they got married. I was born not too long after. When paw got the wagon train safely to Oregon, he gave up the job an they headed ta Texas where he bought a small ranch. That didn't work out too well so we moved up inta the Indian Territory of Oklahoma where he set up a tradin' post. While I was growin' up, he taught me everthing he knew bout trakin' and such, but made certain I got properly educated too. I spent a lot of time with the Indians in the Territory and learned a lot from them also. Paw sometimes hired out as a scout for the army from time ta time, an when I got old enough, he took me along with 'em. Sometimes, he also made a livin' as a bounty hunter when the money was short, an I went along on some a them trips too. He taught me all about guns, survivin', trackin', huntin' and a lot a other things."

"Yer pa wouldn't by any chance have been Tag Ballard, would he?" Moose asked.

"Hell Moose, is there BY CHANCE, anybody in this dang world you ain't heard of?!!! Yep, that's him, sure enough." Ballard said, amazed somewhat that Murdoch should have known both his and Duane's fathers.

"Hell, boy, I ain't no tenderfoot. I reckon I been around some." Moose said grinning. "Shoot, my own grandpaw on my mother's side was none other than Davy Crockett"

"Aw, no shit?" Ballard asked in surprise.

"No shit pardner. Anyhow I met yer pa at the 1845 rendezvous on the Popo Aggie river. He was pardnered up with Kit Carson at the time. If I remember, they were planning ta go along an guide John Fremont surveyin' the Great Basin country and the Sierra looking for more passages to California. He had 'emself quite a reputation back then. He was one to ride the river with. What ever happened to 'em?"

"We were told he was scalped by either Crow or Blackfeet in '61, up near the Jefferson river in Montana. No one really knows for certain, but he left and never came back. I figure they got 'em. It's as good an explanation as any-- I reckon."

Just then, Shane Murdoch crested the rim of the wash and urged his horse down into the gully. He quickly related the results of his own investigation. He had been unable to determine the direction the sheriff's killer had ridden into town. There had simply been too many tracks to be certain, in the amount of time he'd had. Apparently however, the killer had retrieved the sheriff's horse from the livery and had brought it around to the back of the sheriff's office where his own had been tethered. Evidently, no one had noticed, at least, thus far, no one had spoken out about it if they had. As Shane finished his story, three more riders rode up to the opposite rim, from the northwest.

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