At about the same time Logan was taking his shortcut through the woods Hollow Mountains, Jack Duane was riding up to the Baldridge homestead.

The night before, he had said good night to Lancer and Ballard and had turned in early complaining that his heel was bothering him. In fact, it wasn't that so much as the fact that he had other things on his mind and simply wished to be alone. Many of the townsfolk had surrounded them and had been buying them drinks and playing them up as heros for shooting down the bank-robbers earlier that day. Duane had little use for such attention although Ballard seemed to enjoy it. Thus, Duane had retired to the hotel and gone to bed where he had tossed and turned for several hours before finally succumbing to sleep.

He had awakened recalling a series of dreams permeated with the ethereal presence of Maggie Baldridge, fading in, then out, before his mind could grasp or focus upon her.

Although his heel was throbbing painfully, he had resolved to ride out to see her no matter what. He'd hobbled down to the hotel's restaurant and ordered breakfast where he was forced to face several admiring townsfolk all praising his courage at facing the bank robbers and letting him know how they had written his name in for sheriff or marshal. Several kept insisting that he recount the story of how he and Ballard gunned down the hold-up men. Duane had smiled and politely declined their requests, thanking them nevertheless for their confidence in him. He had wished that Ballard had been up with him, to get them off his back. Ballard enjoyed the role of hero, Duane hated it. The truth was, Ballard actually believed he was a hero, whereas, Duane, tough and brave as he was, was certain that he was anything BUT.

Unlike Jack Duane, the loquacious Ballard relished the telling and re-telling of the story and had been so doing at the time Duane had bid him good night. Of course, with Ballard, the story grew bigger and more dramatic with each telling until it had reached nearly epochal proportions. To hear him tell it, one would think that Duane and Ballard had accomplished a feat no less staggering than had they won the battle of the Alamo themselves virtually single-handedly. By morning, the people were speaking of them as though they were Sir Lancelot and Galahad. Ballard, would have seemed to many as nothing more than a blowhard---unless they had seen him in action. He was equally at home with a crowd, or out on the prairie alone for days on end. Capable of adjusting to almost any situation as easily as changing a pair of socks. In that respect, Duane envied him. Jack Duane hated crowds, gossip, small talk, lewd talk, and most of all, bragging on himself.

Thinking back on it as he approached the house, he chuckled to himself and wondered at how fickle people were and how strange fate could be. Most of his life, although not exactly a villain, he had been regarded as the next closest thing and had been met with fear and suspicion wherever he had gone. Now, of all things, he was a hero and they wanted him for sheriff or marshal!

He had managed to obtain directions to the Baldridge place the night before, and had had no trouble locating it. He noticed however, the tracks of a large herd of cattle that had been driven quite recently, less than a mile from the place. He wondered about that now as he gazed at the house which showed no signs of life.

As he reigned in closer has stomach knotted up and his heart began beating faster. The door was virtually split down the middlde and broken off of one of the hinges. He quickly dismounted and tied his horse, then began scouting around. There were several tracks of both men and horses around the front of the place. Judging from the boot-tracks, he could see that most of them were Mexican due to the marks made by their spurs. He found one set of moccasin tracks from a large man--then it hit him like a fist. They looked to be the same size as those made by Sheriff Orr's murderer! He quickly went through the house and found no sign of a struggle other than the broken door.

From the tracks he deduced, that there were about twelve to fifteen men, and two women. "Damn!" He cursed aloud. He wished with all of his heart that Ballard was with him now--and Lancer as well. It could not be helped though. He was good with his guns, maybe, the best. But fifteen men? He would have to be careful. If the same man that killed Sheriff Orr had been among the women's captors, any thought about going back for reinforcements was out of the question even though Olsen's Falls was not three hours away. Time was of the essence and he only hoped it was not too late already. Jack Duane hadn't prayed in years. He did then, as he spurred his horse off in a furious gallop south, the direction they had taken.

By now, there was no doubt in his mind that it was the Esperanza gang that had taken the women. He wondered however, just who the other woman was, and who the cattle had been stolen from. The herd was far too large to have belonged to the Baldridges. It must belong to Murdoch, Bolton, or even possibly, Tanner. It was unlikely that they came from either Tanner or Murdoch however, since a herd this size would be too heavily guarded, but it was nevertheless, possible. More than likely, judging from the direction, it was Bolton's cattle. It would be by far the easiest target. If that were the case, it was likely, Bolton would be wiped out. It brought to mind Murdoch's thinly veiled accusation against Tanner.

Had Tanner anything to do with this he wondered? If so, and if Maggie were harmed in any way, and of course, assuming he got out of this one alive, he decided he would personally put a bullet between his employer's eyes.

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