"Blue Dog, Red, be quiet," Miguel warned. He leaned forward and patted Flossie on the side of her neck. "Hush now, young lady. Some flea-bitten mutt calling for its dinner is no reason for you to be fearful, no."

Sofia craned anxiously in the saddle, peering into the gloomy distance. Her posture tensed up more than Miguel would have thought possible as she unslung her rifle again and brought the scope to her eye. Again, Miguel fought the urge to take her weapon away from her, though it was good that she thought to scope the town for any trouble.

"See anything?" he asked.

Sofia shook her head. "No, Papa. It looks clear from here."

"Very good," he said.

The cowboy unholstered his saddle gun, stroked the polished wooden stock, and resisted the urge to check the loads. There could be no letting his own nerves get the better of him. Any beast or man bold enough to try his luck with Miguel Pieraro would very quickly find that luck turning sour, especially today. He stood alert, listening as the horses dipped their heads back to the dam. They heard no more of the predator. After a few minutes even Sofia relaxed. With the horses watered, he hauled himself back up into the saddle for the short ride into Leona.

"We'll camp here, Sofia," he said, mostly for the sake of saying something.

They had ridden in silence for most of the day, exchanging only a few words here and there as was necessary.

"Fine," she replied.

Sunset was not far off as the last of the storm clouds broke open to reveal a deep red-orange orb peering through a haze of magenta and purple as it fell toward the western horizon. A few birds trilled and tweeted in the trees as the small caravan slowly approached the edge of the settlement. Sofia remained quiet. What little heat had been generated by the reappearance of the sun rapidly leached out of the day as Miguel scanned the ruins of the town for somewhere suitable to make camp. It looked as though more than half the place had burned after the Wave hit, and many of the surviving buildings were badly storm-damaged. Wrack and refuse littered the two main roads, and a flagpole outside the general store was bent over at nearly forty degrees; a twisted sheet of corrugated iron had wrapped itself around the pole where the flag must have flown in days past. The metal awning over the sidewalk by the ruined flagpole had collapsed and the windows flanking the store's main entrance were broken, but structurally the building seemed fine.

"Perhaps over here," he suggested as he dismounted and led the horses over to a line of wooden fencing that had survived intact.

"Uh-huh." His daughter shrugged, following suit and dismounting. Miguel frowned as he tethered Flossie and the string of remounts before removing his saddle gun and cautiously approaching what looked like a general store. After a few steps he paused and motioned to Sofia to be ready with her Remington. She brought the rifle up to her shoulder and waited for further instructions. Her eyes remained blank, cold. Miguel was worried for her, but he had to press on. He whistled softly to the dogs and waved them ahead of him. The dogs trotted off, sniffing and twitching their ears, but gave no sign of any trouble. Miguel took his time examining the building. A small annex, once given over to a diner, remained in stasis. No windows had broken to let in the elements, and the cowboy could see in the fading light that three of the four Formica tables had been occupied on the morning of the Disappearance. Piles of clothing, stained black and stiff with organic residue, lay draped over half a dozen chairs. In front of them sat plates of food or what had been food. Red and yellow plastic bottles stood on each table accompanied by dried-out bottles of McIlhenny Tabasco sauce.

Miguel couldn't help shaking his head at what the gringos called hot sauce. To his taste it was as bland and sugary as catsup.

Except for a few bones scattered about, it seemed that rats and insects had cleaned up the leftovers. He supposed they had probably cleaned up whatever was left of the customers, too. His nostrils flared in anticipation of the smell, but three summers had probably petrified the remains. Pushing through the door of the main store, he sniffed and confirmed his suspicion. Dust and neglect and the faint iron tang imparted to human leavings by the mysterious action of the Wave were all that lingered.

"Sit," he ordered the dogs. "Outside," he added. They would not now enter the building without specifically being ordered to. He did not want them pawing through any of the human remains in there. It would be disrespectful. Like almost everyone in the post-Wave world Miguel had grown used to the sight of the Disappeared, but unlike some he had never allowed himself to forget that they had all been God's children, had possessed souls, and had left this world without the benefit of those blessings and rites with which all men should embark on their journey into the next life.

"I am just going to check it out," he called back to Sofia. "You keep a watch and come quickly to me if you see anyone approaching."

She nodded more emphatically than he had expected and moved to give herself a better view of the path they had taken from the edge of the forest into town.

Miguel stepped up off the road and onto the front porch, which creaked loudly under his boot. The sun was very low now and it was dark inside, forcing him to haul out his Maglite, which he held in one hand while sweeping the space with his saddle gun. A pair of black workman's boots, Levi's, a checked shirt, and a hat lay on the floor just in front of his feet. The clothes looked stiff and blackened. Moving into the shop, he found two more piles of clothing in the next aisle over. No, make that three. He missed the baby shawl on first glance. There would probably be another set of remains behind the counter, he imagined, but for now all that mattered was that the store was empty and safe.

He found a couple of kerosene lamps and after a few minutes had them going, giving him ample light. He quickly walked the aisles, noting what supplies they might take in the morning and what might be useful for the night. A sealed glass jar of beef jerky on the counter he scooped up immediately. It would do for the dogs. Peering behind the counter, he was surprised to find there were no human remains, but he did note a sealed trapdoor, which was good news. The canned food on the shelves of the store would probably be safe to eat even after three years. But it would have been exposed to high temperatures even with the climatic cooling they had experienced of late, and he had no wish to expose Sofia to the danger of food poisoning. If there was a good cellar, however, any stores down there would be fine.

This looked like a good point to lay up for the first night. He returned to the horses and was pleased to see Sofia keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. She brought up the scope of her Remington every so often, sighting on something of interest before lowering the rifle. Her movements were rigid, somewhat machinelike. Miguel thought she was in shock, as he himself must certainly be. But there could be no question of coddling themselves until they had covered a safe distance. He began unloading the saddlebags.

"Sofia, you are doing very well, sweetheart. I need you to take the horses into the garden across the road. It is fenced off, and there is a small pond for them to drink. Can you do that while I unpack and set up?"

"Yes, Papa," she answered. She had always worked hard, and he trusted her to look after the horses properly, even as damaged as she was by the trauma of the day. He, too, had been forced to push through his own pain and distress, and he wondered when they might have a chance to simply settle down for a day or two and grieve for their loss. Sofia led all the animals through the deepening twilight into the garden he had indicated. The house there had burned down, but the fence line remained intact. Flossie tossed her head and insisted on leading her mates through the gate and into the knee-length grass.