It was still pitch dark, and the room in the small hotel he'd found in Little Juarez was totally silent. There was no sound beyond the door leading to the hallway, no rumbling of wagon wheels or clumping of hooves was audible through the half-open window. Reaching for his vest, draped over the back of a chair pulled close to the bed, Longarm fingered his watch from its pocket and snapped open the case before lighting one of the matches he'd laid beside the base of the lamp that stood in the seat of the chair. The watch confirmed the message his mind had sent him. it was four o'clock--time to be up and on the trail. By the time he'd dressed, had a quick breakfast, and picked up the horse he'd rented at the livery stable around the corner from the hotel, dawn would be slitting the eastern sky. He lifted the lamp chimney and touched the match to the wick before the flame got to his fingertips. Light bathed the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, stretching, then reached for the bottle of Maryland rye he'd bought at the saloon before turning in the night before.
