There's always more than one route to a fight. My Pa used to tell me about this funny old fellow he rode with once, a man who swore by some Oriental book about the art of running away. I told Pa that had to be the shortest damn book ever written—turn and run, the end.

  Pa laughed, flashing that big, easy grin of his. Then he pulled me in close, so near the fire that the light danced in his one good eye. He smelled like whiskey and saddle leather, like long rides and longer nights.

  "No, son. That book's as big as any other. Because there's more to retreating than running and more to winning a fight than being the toughest man standing. That's why I'm teaming up with this Boss fellow. Even though I don't trust men who won't go by their God-given name, hell, everyone's got flaws like teeth, and I ain't any better. You're gonna learn from him, son. The best damn teacher you never had."

  Then he looked up and away, the way he always did when he said his ruined eye—lost to the shamans of the South tribe—let him see something farther off. He never could tell what, only that he had to keep looking. Toward the end of his life, he only looked up.

  "I only need you, Pa." I wanted him to know that more than anything.

  "Follow that man until you don't need to anymore. The Wild West ain't done turning things on its head."

  I figured the Boss would call for a sneak attack or send us ahead as scouts. Instead, he did the last thing I expected—he had us ride right into camp.

  They were deep in their cups, the sorry lot of them, their revelry turning stone-cold sober the moment four rough riders and a caravan of wagons came rolling in. I rode in the rear, trying to wear a cold, mean face, even as nerves twisted my guts up something fierce. My hands itched. My spirit welled up, a jittering, cosmic horror crawling under my skin.

  I prayed nothing popped off. Maybe that was why I wasn't the Boss's right-hand man. I still got nervous.

  "Howdy, partners," the Boss called out easily. "Looks like we've all got good heads on our shoulders. Don't reckon you'd mind us parking out back?"

  He pointed to a narrow stretch at the canyon's edge—just enough space for the wagons but snug enough to offer cover from any wandering eyes.

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  A long silence followed. The kind that eats up the night, leaving only the whisper of desert trees and the fire's low murmur, like it was whispering with the spirits of the damned.

  My nerves itched, so I let a little spirit trickle through me. Not enough for a tracer to pick up, just enough to sharpen my hands and make my instincts quicker. I patted my horse's neck, whispering, "Easy, girl. Easy." It was more for me than her, but we both settled down a bit.

  Then, from deep in the camp, past the half-drunk fools keeping lazy watch, a voice cut through the dark like a boot through a saloon door.

  "Well, I'll be damned if it ain't El Jefe himself."

  The firelight caught him as he stepped forward—a barrel-chested man with a beard thick enough to catch bullets and gold teeth that gleamed when he grinned. The spirit still hummed in me, and I tried to identify him as best I could. He was dangerous. Maybe he had some witchery or artifacts providing a faint bit of glamor, but he was still powerful enough that I wouldn't take him on unless I wanted to come out less alive than I started.

  The Boss chuckled. "Oil Beard, that your rotten ass?"

  The men at his back stiffened, hands twitching toward weapons. Their teeth became knives.

  Oil Beard lifted a hand. "Settle down, boys. I owe this bastard two lives. Tonight, as we let his caravan rest beside ours, I'll only owe him only one."

  The Boss smirked. "I thought it was more like four. But I'll take the help, even if it comes with an upcharge."

  He whistled, and our caravan started shifting into place.

  I went to help Joy and her family unload, but Rickey, one of the squad leaders, caught my eye and motioned for me to follow. He led me to the camp's rear, where the cliff overlooked the Red Canyon basin. With the last shreds of spirit still in me, I let myself take in the view—the night stretched wide and vast, quiet except for the wind. It calmed me. But only just a little.

  "Good," Rickey said. "You've tempered yourself. Boss wants you on high alert. Keep your eyes on the wagons. Keep your ears on the shadows."

  I frowned. "Why? Ain't they friends?"

  Rickey let out a low laugh. "Boss don't got friends, Cade. We weren't shot on the spot 'cause Oil Beard knew it'd be a coin flip at best. Men like him and Boss don't hold onto favors. You use 'em, or you lose 'em. Ain't no deposits and withdrawals in the Wilds."

  He left me alone with that thought, and the nerves came creeping back in.

  I glanced over the vista again, breathed deep, and made up my mind. If tonight was going to be hell, I'd at least spend a little of it with Joy.

  So I lit a cigarette, took in the night one last time, and got ready to dance with the devil.