His sorrel snorted, the horse’s breath misty in the chill morning air. To the east, across the river, the sun hadn’t risen high enough to touch the ice-choked water of the Pecos. Thin, rosy-tinted clouds lay above the distant caprock of the Staked Plains. There was something about dawn that took a man out of himself. Two years ago Mark had seen an Apache standing on a faraway bluff with his arms raised to greet the rising sun. He’d felt a flash of kinship with him, though that hadn’t kept Mark from making sure the same Indian wasn’t trailing him with a night ambush in mind. He hadn’t ridden line since he’d begun as a cowhand, five years ago, wouldn’t be riding it now if Hank Hendricks hadn’t gotten himself knifed in a San Patricio cantina in a fight over some senorita de la noche. Mark didn’t mind line-riding, checking for stray Dolan calves and turning them back before they strayed onto Chisum land.
