Latigo asked. “No,” Sam said, “can’t say as I do.” At midnight on the cloudy night, the moon was playing peek-a-boo with the clouds. Bright silver moonlight alternated with ghostly silver-black gloom. A farmer’s old saw Sam had oft heard repeated during boyhood days in southwest Minnesota maintained that for the best crop yields, some planting was done by moonlight. He and Latigo were doing some planting of their own on the far west edge of Hangtown, sowing seeds of destruction to reap a crop of pure hell. It was an idea he’d had, to lay out a special welcome mat for Red Hand. Surprise package, so to speak. He’d pitched it earlier to Hutto and Barton and through them to the Cattleman Crowd. The town powers had bought his idea. Sam and Latigo were laying the groundwork to make it happen. They were not the only agents of the plan. Others were at work in other parts of Hangtown, carrying out similar preparations. Moonlight or shadow, which is best, Sam wondered. Moonlight meant he could see better, but he could also be seen.
