"It seems a reasonable idea," Aronson said. "But are you sure that Adam is the one to take with you?"

"He is a good boy," Miguel said. "Brave and reliable. And he will be under my supervision, of course. I will ensure he does not run off the trail and do something stupid."

Ben Randall topped off his mug from the coffeepot standing on the bench in front of them. Maive Aronson had made up the brew after discovering a stash of vacuum-sealed beans in the larder. They were not exactly fresh, but it was still something of a luxury to have them.

"I'm happy to go with Miguel," Randall offered, but the vaquero could tell from the way the lines in Aronson's face grew even longer and deeper that he did not relish the idea of losing a man who had proved himself so capable in the brutal hand-to-hand fight back at Crockett.

"No, I think we will go with Miguel's idea," Aronson said. "If he's the one out scouting for these characters, I think we should leave it to him who he chooses to ride with."

The engineer shrugged off what could have been taken as a slight, but Miguel felt he needed to explain himself anyway.

"My daughter will be here when I ride away," he said. "I would be happier, much happier, knowing you were here to guard her. I saw you beating down those road agents in Crockett, Randall. Sofia will be safe with you."

Randall tipped his coffee mug slightly toward Miguel. "And you can rest assured no harm will come to her while there is breath in my body, Miguel," he said.

"Then we shall head out before first light," said the cowboy. "Adam is already sleeping. He has packed himself a bedroll and supplies for a five-day ride. I shall do the same. But first we should agree on a route, yes?"

He reached along the bench for one of the battered Rand McNally road maps they were using to navigate through Texas. The thick, laminated foldout map was covered in squiggles and notes. It was fraying at the edges and along the creases where it had been folded and unfolded countless times. Miguel made a mental note to pick up a new one when the opportunity arose. They cleared a space between the candles and refolded the document to center it on their current location.

Miguel placed his finger on their location and traced a rough waving line to the north. "We shall follow this path," he said. "Switching and doubling back as we go, clearing a trail, shall we say twenty miles wide, looking for any sign of the agents."

"And if you do find them?" Aronson said.

"Then we shall make sure they do not find us."

Texas Administrative Division The dogs began growling long before Miguel and Adam approached the ridgeline. The vaquero called them back with a nightingale whistle, as they had been taught, and tossed each a piece of beef jerky as a reward.

"Stay. Be quiet," he ordered them before motioning to the boy to dismount and secure his horse. Adam did as he was told, not saying a word, leading his mare to a cedar tree, where he tied her to a low branch before unslinging an M4 carbine fitted with a heavy-looking silencer. Life on the range was pressing all the youth out of him, leaving just the hardy stripling of a young man behind. He was learning quickly.

Miguel took a moment to look behind him, checking all the possible places where Sofia might lurk. After Crockett he was especially sharp to the notion that she might repeat her performance.

Once satisfied that his daughter had stayed behind, Miguel took his Winchester from the scabbard. They advanced cautiously to the crest through a light forest of fir trees, mountain juniper, and a few scattered conifers and Dutch elms. The forest floor was soft with pine needles, deadening the sound of their approach. Miguel could smell wood smoke and roasting pig meat, and his mouth watered involuntarily. A few feet from the top, they both crouched down and snaked forward the rest of the way on their bellies. Miguel gave Adam a brief nod. The boy was doing fine and seemed unaffected by the anxiety that had nearly unmanned him before the rescue at Crockett.

The voices reached them as they warily raised themselves up on their elbows and peered over the ridgeline. The hillside fell away a good three hundred yards down to a plateau that had been cleared of trees a long time in the past. A hunting lodge, most likely constructed from the felled pines and firs, stood facing the west, bathed in the warm light of the late-afternoon sun. A band of men, over twenty of them, lolled about on the soft grass in front of the lodge and on couches and Adirondack chairs sheltered under a generous front porch. A spitted hog fizzed and crackled over a bed of coals, causing Miguel to wonder at its origin. Pigs were one of the animals that had vanished or been killed in great numbers by the Wave. Was this a feral leftover or perhaps a trophy taken from some poor settler family, perhaps even those poor folk they had found back in Palestine?

"Agents?" his companion asked in a low voice.

Miguel nodded. The men were well armed with military weapons, and their camp looked as though it had been professionally supplied. They were dressed in the same ragtag fashion as the agents back in Crockett, sporting outlandish costumes obviously chosen more for effect than for practicality. As he drew a pair of binoculars to study the camp in closer detail, two women emerged from the hut, both attired in the same slutty fashion as the camp whores they had liberated: miniskirts, boots, low-cut T-shirts. None of it was sensible in cold spring weather, but he had to admit they were outfits well chosen to please the men they were with. Miguel studied the camp for five minutes, searching for evidence of any captives, but there were none. Perhaps this band of outlaws preferred to move more freely than would be possible with reluctant prisoners in tow. Perhaps that was why the women in Palestine had not survived their encounter, if these were the men responsible.

Miguel grunted in frustration.

"Anything seem strange to you, Miguel?" Adam asked, keeping his eye to the scope of his weapon.

"What am I looking for?"

"A lot of them are clean-shaven, lean and trim," Adam said. "Not like the other agents."

"I see," Miguel said. "Blackstone's soldiers, perhaps?"

Adam shrugged. "Suspect so."

It was all idle and pointless speculation. They could not know the minds of the men down in that glade, and short of stealing into the camp to snatch a prisoner for interrogation, they never would. And again, what would be the point? They had been lucky in Crockett. The agents there had been sloppy and ill disciplined. There was nothing about this gang that made him think they would be as fortunate a second time around. The camp was well laid out, with garbage and sewage pits dug well away from the lodge and the little spring that presumably provided their water. If they were soldiers, there would be fighting positions, traps, and perhaps even land mines hidden around the exterior of the camp. A line of clothes hung drying in the weak sunlight, attended by the whores who had just emerged from the lodge, and there was even a small vegetable patch situated to catch the northern sun.

No. These men knew what they were doing, which meant they would have patrols out in the woods.

He had seen enough.

"Let's go," he mouthed to Adam. "We must divert farther to the northeast," Miguel insisted.

He warmed his hands over a potbellied stove in a holiday house overlooking Pineywoods Lake, a good twenty miles to the west of the road agent's camp. Most of the Mormon party was there save for Benjamin and Maive, who were out riding patrol. The ranch-style home, all timber and stone, had expansive views over the water, which rippled in the glow of a crescent moon. He was able to see out through the picture windows because a few candles and the glowing coals of the stove provided the only illumination, creating just the ghost reflection of the small group of travelers in the glass. Still rugged up against the cold, routinely armed, thin and tired, they presented an almost medieval image when viewed against the background of the moon-dappled lake.