Sweat trickled down my back and three days of dust clung to my skin and clothes. My whiskers itched, and I had the mood of a poked badger. I'd been searching for the group of men who'd carried out a string of robberies across the Montana Territory over the past three months, but up until now, I'd had no leads and no luck. But perhaps my luck was about to change. Riding from Miles City to Billings to Bozeman, I'd followed the Sinclair's path of illegal activity to the small town of Zenith. I knew their ranch was just over this rise. That's what the townsfolk had said—that it was three miles southeast of town—and if I just kept the tallest peak on the mountain range in the distance directly in front of me, I'd ride right onto their land. The information was shared easily enough, for no one in town seemed overly keen on anyone in the family, except the one female Sinclair. They excluded her from their less than positive commentary, which seemed odd.
