The ground elevated the farther Gideon Miles rode, a steady incline up toward the Beaverhead Mountains in the distance, and a chill wind swept along the fields of snowberries. It would have been a nice place to linger, make camp, but there was a job to do. Smoke trotted steadily on, responding to every slight tug and push from his rider. Man and horse traversed the woods at a nice clip, and after a half-hour Miles smelled wood smoke, saw it billowing from the chimney of a modest wood-lined house along Ridge Creek. He reined up just before coming into the clearing. Across the creek, Gandy's small patch of land looked freshly cultivated. A couple mules fed at a trough on the far side of the house. About mid-way across the clearing stood a small but well-maintained shed, and about fifty yards from that a rickety mule cart. There was no sign of Gandy. Miles touched spurs to Smoke's sides, and the grullo moved into the clearing. He rode over the shallow creek, right up to the house, and still saw no activity.
