Archive of Our Own ^beta

As evening fell, Neal welcomed the respite from the hot sun. But his face still felt uncomfortably warm. He pressed a hand to his side and winced at the burning pain that shot through him.

He'd felt better when he'd started out that morning. Good enough that, despite his injury, he'd decided to walk the rest of the way to White Hills. The train didn't go quite that far, and with the wanted posters that had been cropping up lately, Neal didn't want to risk getting noticed. It was only fifteen miles from the train station in the city to the smaller town of White Hills, and normally, Neal could have walked it easily as long as he had enough water.

But his side was bothering him. He opened his jacket and noticed with alarm that there was a small circle of blood on his shirt. He'd torn his stitches.

He was lucky the wound wasn't worse than it was. Still, he worried about infection, and with the torn stitches, each step was painful.

It had been foolish to think he could walk. He should have taken his chances and tried to hire a ride.

Even without the moon to light his way, Neal would have been able to stay on track by following the worn dirt road. As luck would have it, though, the moon was nearly full tonight. He was able to make out a group of ranch buildings in the distance, perhaps a quarter mile away. He could just make out the dark outlines, and some of the windows glowed with faint light from gas lamps or candles.

What he wouldn't give for the chance to sit and rest, and maybe refill his canteen.

He stepped off the road and started in the direction of the ranch.

He considered what he would do when he arrived. Normally, he would knock on the door and ask for aid. People seldom closed the door on his smile. But the wanted posters he'd seen near the train station made him wary. Perhaps it would be best to take what he needed, find a quiet place to rest for a bit, and continue on before dawn.

The ranch was quiet. It was long past suppertime now, and some of the windows that had been illuminated fifteen or twenty minutes ago were dark now. He could just make out a water pump off to the side of the main house, and he hurried over to it.

The handle squeaked as he pumped it, and he made quick work of refilling his canteen. Then, he looked for a safe place to rest and perhaps catch an hour or two of sleep. With luck, his wound would be better in the morning and he could make do until he reached White Hills and found a doctor.

There was a stable that looked inviting. He slipped in through a side door and blinked as he tried to make out his surroundings. Some of the horses in their stalls snorted when they heard him, and Neal said, "It's okay. I'm just visiting."

He found an empty stall that smelled clean, and sat down in a small pile of hay left over from its previous inhabitant. He winced as he lowered himself to the ground, but it felt good to get off his feet.

Just as he was about to let his guard down, there was a creak. Neal saw a faint glow of lantern light and tensed. Someone was coming in. He got to his hands and knees and started to crawl to the opposite corner of the stall, hoping to hide beside the door. But before he could move far, he heard a shotgun cock in his direction.

"Don't you dare move," a woman said. "You're trespassing, and I won't hesitate to shoot you."

Neal looked up. In the faint light of the stable, he couldn't make out the woman well. It appeared she'd brought a lantern in but left it near the entrance. He could see that she was wearing a nightgown and a shawl, and that she had a large shotgun pointed right at him.

He knelt up slowly, raising his hands as he did so. "I apologize, ma'am, but I don't mean any harm. I'm unarmed, so there's no need to shoot me."

"I'll shoot a horse thief if I wish."

"I'm not a horse thief. I'm just a traveler. I'm trying to make my way to White Hills and needed a bit of water. I'm wounded and my travels have taken a toll on me." Slowly, he parted his jacket so that she could see the blood staining his shirt.

"If you needed help, why didn't you knock on the door like a civilized person?"

"I didn't want to disturb your household so late at night. I planned to leave before morning."

Slowly, the woman backed up. Still holding her gun in one hand, she reached behind her with another and rang a bell that was mounted on the wall.

The following minutes felt like an eternity. Neal could tell that she must have signaled for someone when she rang the bell, and she seemed content to hold him at gunpoint while she waited.

"There's no need for this," Neal said. "I mean you no harm."

"I won't take any chances. If you're not a horse thief, maybe you're a spy or a saboteur sent over by Halbridge. I'm sure he'd like to see my horses run off or my cattle poisoned."

"I have no complaint with you or your ranch. If you let me go now, you'll never see me again."

There was the sound of hurrying footsteps, and soon a man joined them, carrying a lantern. His shirt was untucked and his boots unlaced, as though he'd dressed quickly.

"What is it, Miss Ellis?"

"We have a trespasser, Mr. Jones. I heard a noise outside and caught this man interfering with the horses."

"I wasn't interfering with anything. I'm hurt, and I needed a safe place to rest for the night."

The man, Jones, stepped forward, shining the light into the stall.

"Looks like he's got a suitcase with him." Jones came into the stall and crouched down. "What did you mean, you're hurt?"

Neal showed him the blood. "I was playing poker and my opponent had too much to drink. Didn't take kindly to the fact I was winning. The local doctor said I was lucky the knife just glanced off a rib. I tore my stitches earlier, and I'm running a fever. But if I just get some rest, I'll be fine."

Miss Ellis lowered the gun just barely. "If you ask me, it's still mighty suspicious, sneaking around like this. And far be it for anyone to say I won't help those in need, but I don't see anything good in letting a stranger spend the night alone with the horses while the rest of us sleep."

"I can put him in with us for the night," Jones said. Turning to Neal, he said, "Where are you headed?"

"I'm on my way to White Hills."

"I'm going to take the wagon into town in the morning. You can ride with me."

Neal noticed that despite Jones's willingness to help, the man's tone and expression weren't completely trusting. Still, Neal was glad for the hospitality.

Jones helped Neal to his feet, and picked up Neal's suitcase for him. Neal limped behind Jones as he led him out of the stables.

Miss Ellis finally lowered the shotgun, but didn't set it down. Neal could hear her behind him.

"Is this your ranch?" he asked.

"It is," she said.

"It's nice. I saw some of your cattle earlier."

She didn't respond, and Neal didn't attempt to engage her in any more conversation. It seemed best not to aggravate her.

"By the way," Miss Ellis said, "if you're going to spend the night on my property, I'd like to know who you are."

"My name's Nicholas Halden. My friends call me Nick."

"Mr. Halden. I'm Sara Ellis. This is Mr. Jones, my foreman."

When they reached the bunkhouse, she turned to Jones and said, "I trust you can handle him from here."

"Yes, ma'am. But you best bolt the door when you go in the house, just in case."

Neal could have taken offense at that, but he wasn't in any condition to argue. He needed the hospitality. Worse, if he gave them a hard time, they might hand him over the marshals or the local sheriff.

Sara left them when they reached the bunkhouse. Jones led him inside.

There was a bearded man waiting near the door. He was barefoot, and his shirt was unbuttoned.

"What's going on?" he asked Jones. "What did the boss lady want?"

"Nothing. This is Mr. Halden. He's going to stay the night here and ride into White Hills with me tomorrow."

The other man looked at Neal skeptically, but then nodded and turned away, presumably going back to the bunk room. Jones led Neal in the opposite direction, into a dining room with a long table and two long benches.

"Have a seat. I'll be right back."

Neal gratefully took a seat on one of the benches. He set his bag on the floor at his feet. Jones had set the lantern on the table, and shadows stretched across the walls.

Jones was gone for several minutes. Neal was beginning to wonder about his whereabouts when he came back with an armful of blankets. On top of the blankets, he balanced a small leather case.

"I don't have a bed for you, but I was thinking we could put some blankets on the floor in here."

"Thank you. I'm sure I'll be comfortable."

It couldn't be much worse than sleeping on the train. Or in a prison cell.

"Before you go to sleep, though, I want to take a look at that wound of yours. It should be stitched up again."

Neal stiffened. "I'm sure I can see the doctor in White Hills."

"Oh, certainly, but the sooner you get fixed up, the better. Don't worry—I've done this before."

He laid out the blankets on the floor. There were two, so Neal could use one to lie on and the other to cover up with. Jones folded the bottom one in half to provide some cushioning against the hardwood floor. Neal slowly lay down, unsure about letting this stranger practice medicine on him. He unbuttoned his shirt.

Then again, he knew it could be worse. The conditions in prison had been horrible. He was never stabbed, but one winter, he'd developed a nasty cough and fever that kept him confined to his bunk for days.

But he was strong. He'd survived four years in Sing Sing, and would survive this.

From the floor, he couldn't see what Jones was doing very well. When Jones knelt before him with the needle ready, Neal took a deep breath.

"Relax. You're not the first man I've done this for."

"Oh? I suppose there must be a lot of injuries on a cattle ranch."

"The work has its dangers. But no, I learned how to dress a wound during the war." He handed Neal a small metal flask. "Here, it's whiskey. It'll help with the pain."

Neal unscrewed the cap and took a long swig of the strong liquor. It burned its way down his throat and he wrinkled his nose, but the strength of the drink felt good.

He set the flask aside and said, "You were in the Army? For the North?" He assumed that was the case, but it was hard to know. The Confederacy had enlisted black soldiers.

"I wouldn't have fought for anyone else."

Neal felt a pinch as the needle passed through his skin. He looked at the ceiling while Jones restitched the wound. He clenched his teeth, determined not to show any weakness.

When he was finished, Jones told him to stay put. Neal had no problem with that. He was exhausted, and after Jones left the room, he almost fell asleep. He was jolted back to awareness when Jones returned with a small clay bowl.

Neal propped himself up on his elbows, ignoring the pain. "What's that?"

"For your wound. It'll help."

It was some sort of herbal paste. It stung when Jones rubbed it on the wound, but Neal would take whatever help he could get.

"You're lucky your ribs stopped the knife," Jones said. "Or you might not be here."

Neal knew that all too well. He'd been lucky that Keller had been in a rush, hadn't stuck around long enough to finish him off properly.

Jones finished and started to leave. Neal watched him, and spoke up before he stepped through the doorway.

"Thank you."

Looking over his shoulder, Jones said, "Just stay out of trouble tonight. If Miss Ellis catches you sneaking around again, I won't stop her from shooting you."

Jones took the lantern with him, leaving the dining room dark except for the moonlight that shone through the windows.

Neal pulled his shirt back over his chest, but didn't button it. He still wore his jacket, and now he reached into the side pocket and pulled out the tightly-folded square of paper.

Neal unfolded it and held it in front of his face. He could barely make out the hand-drawn map, but he wanted to look at it all the same.

If Keller had known Neal had this, Neal would be dead now for sure.

Neal squinted at the drawing of mountains, and the large X. First, he would go to White Hills and find Mozzie. Then, when the time was right and he was healed, he would find the location marked on this map.

He put the map back in his pocket and closed his eyes, inviting dreams of treasure.

It was barely light out when the ranch hands got up. Neal was still resting when Jones peeked into the dining room.

"We'll be eating breakfast in there in a minute, so you'd best get up."

Neal winced as he sat up, but he discovered that his injury felt better today than it had the night before. His fever had passed.

As Neal had slept in his clothes, there wasn't much to do to get ready. His clothes were wrinkled, but he could wait for a change until he got into town. He washed up quickly and scrubbed his teeth with his finger. He looked forward to getting a chance to put on fresh clothes and sleep in a proper bed. He just hoped that the address Mozzie had given him was still good. Mozzie had written to him months ago, and a lot could change in that time.

He enjoyed a hearty breakfast with the ranch hands. Toast, bacon, even some coffee. They were curious about him, and wanted to know where he'd come from and where he was going. Neal supposed there weren't a lot of newcomers to these parts.

"I'm coming from Chicago," he said, which was partly true. He had been in Chicago recently. "A good friend of mine settled in White Hills not long ago and invited to come and visit him."

"What's your friend's name?" Jones asked. "Perhaps we know him."

Neal hesitated, but only for a second. "Dante Haversham."

Jones shrugged. "Hmm. Don’t know him. But White Hills is getting bigger every year."

That was a good thing as far as Neal was concerned. He wasn't fond of the intimacy of small towns. Too hard to blend in and control how he presented himself. Then again, as much as he missed the hustle of New York City, he didn't miss the squalor of prison or the times he'd spent on the streets.

To Neal's relief, Jones wanted to head into town immediately after breakfast. After Jones hitched a horse to the wooden wagon, Neal climbed into the back as Jones got into the driver's seat.

They rode in silence for a few minutes. Neal rested his arm on the side of the wagon and looked around, taking in the landscape.

"What are you doing in town today?" he asked Jones.

"Buying supplies. We need flour and beans. I also need to talk to the blacksmith. One of the horses threw a shoe the other day."

"How long have you worked here?"

"About five years. It's a good job."

"Does your boss have a habit of pointing shotguns at people?"

"Only trespassers and thieves."

"Who said I'm a thief?"

"Nobody. But you are a trespasser."

Neal couldn't deny that.

"Sherriff Burke, are you familiar with the San Antonio train robbery last month?"

Peter regarded the U.S. marshal sitting before him. The man had introduced himself as Garrett Fowler.

"I am," Peter said. "Two people were killed in that robbery."

"The culprits have been identified as a group known as the Matthew Keller Gang."

"I've heard of them. It's a notorious gang. What, six or seven men?"

"Seven. The leader is Matthew Keller, of course. He has no qualms about killing his victims. He's killed before. For a while now, he's been working with Cristofer Navarro and Ryan Wilkes, who are just as cutthroat. Manuel Campos, Jason Lang, and Jonas Ganz are minor criminals who are mostly following the lead of the others. They're capable of violence, but they lack Keller's intelligence. It should be able to catch them. The last member is Neal Caffrey. We don't know as much about his involvement, and he's a bit of a special case. Spent four years in Sing Sing prison in New York for theft and forgery, and has been suspected of many more crimes since he came west. He was last spotted traveling alone in Kansas a little less than a week ago, but witnesses have seen him with Keller in the past and we believe he's a member of the gang. He's known more for lying and stealing than he is for violence. He uses aliases."

The mention of New York and Sing Sing brought back memories for Peter. He'd been a police officer in New York before coming out west with his wife. Most days, he didn't miss it. White Hills was fairly peaceful. He knew that the fresh air and life in a smaller city suited Elizabeth well. Ironically, though there was certainly a danger from roving gangs of train robbers and highwaymen, Peter faced less danger here than he had while working the streets of New York. And he was certainly safer than on the battlefield. After the war, both he and Elizabeth had felt like getting some peace.

Still, he hadn't taken the job of sheriff to sit around all day, and the talk of the San Antonio train robbery and the Matthew Keller Gang got his blood pumping, even if White Hills was an unlikely target for the gang.

Fowler pushed a wanted poster across the desk, and Peter picked it up. There was a drawing of Keller on it, though the other men weren't pictured.

"We don't get a lot of travelers here," Peter said. "But I'll keep an eye out. It'd help to have pictures of the other men."

"We're working on that. I want to get posters of Caffrey up as soon as possible, since he's known for crafting false identities. I'm waiting to receive a picture of him from when he was put in Sing Sing." He pushed another piece of paper across the desk. "I do have a list of the men's descriptions."

Peter looked over the list. Caffrey was mentioned as being in his early thirties, with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a smooth, youthful complexion.

"You'll be doing a great service to the country if you keep an eye out for these men, Sheriff. Before I leave, I'd like to post some of these wanted posters around your town."

"Go ahead. Are you staying in White Hills tonight? You could have supper with me and my wife."

"Thank you, Sheriff Burke, but I need to be on my way. It's only a couple hours' ride to the next town, and I'll spend the night there."

Peter was a little relieved. Something about Fowler's demeanor didn't sit right with him. He knew the importance of working with the Marshals, but he would be just as glad to see this man go.

But he would keep an eye out for the members of the Matthew Keller Gang.

After Fowler left, it occurred to Peter that he'd heard the name Neal Caffrey before. Peter managed to get newspapers from New York occasionally, and a few years ago there was quite a bit about Caffrey and his crimes. He was a thief, forger, and conman, and the police had hunted him for months. Peter remembered the case because when he'd read about it, it made him long to be back in New York.

But train robbery was nasty work. He wondered what had led a man like Neal Caffrey to get mixed up with someone like Matthew Keller.

Neal had expected the town to be a small place. Compared to New York, it was. But after a few minutes of walking along the side of the main road, Neal had to ask a passerby for directions to the Ellington Hotel.

When he arrived, the building wasn't easy to miss. At four stories tall, it towered over the buildings on either side of it. A freshly-painted wooden sign hung above the door.

Neal stepped inside and blinked as his eyes adjusted to dimly-lit interior. The place was filled with tables. Apparently, the hotel was a restaurant, too. And a thriving one, by the looks of it. Most of the tables were filled.

One side of the room had a bar, and Neal heard a familiar, welcome voice.

"I told you, if you want more, you have to pay your tab. I don't make the rules around here."

"Like hell you don't," a man slurred in response. "Come on, just one more. I'll pay you next week."

"I don't think so. Pay up or get out."

As the unhappy customer lumbered off, cursing, Neal made his way to the bar and took the vacated seat. The bartender had turned away, but Neal would recognize him from any direction.

"What have you got for a thirsty traveler?" Neal asked.

Mozzie turned around. His eyes widened in delight.

"Neal? I can't believe it!"

Neal grinned. "You said I should come out here. Did you get my letter?"

"If you mean the one you sent in March, yes, I did. I was starting to think you'd never show up."

"I'm sorry I didn't write to you again. Things got...complicated."

He didn't intend to go into that now, but Mozzie was a step ahead of him.

"I'll say. What's this about you working with Keller?"

"I needed money. I had nothing. I ran into Keller, and I wasn't in a position to turn up a chance at some money."

"Well, your exploits have the U.S. Marshals on your tail. You are aware of that?"

"I've seen the wanted posters." Neal looked around. The last thing he needed was to incriminate himself in public. "Let's not talk about this here. I'll tell you everything later. By the way, you haven't heard from Kate, have you?"

"No. I haven't seen her since before you went to prison."

Neal murmured. He'd suspected as much.

Mozzie poured Neal a glass of ale and pushed it over to him. Neal took it gratefully. He was thirsty, and he wanted the alcohol to numb the pain in his side and his heart.

He'd known, of course, that the chances of finding Kate out here were slim. Her last letter said she was going to Kansas, but Neal had asked around all over, and nobody could tell him where she was.

A lot of people moved west these days, and towns were growing bigger each year. Kate had wanted a new start for herself, and the West was an easy place to get lost.

Neal just hoped the same would be true for him.

Mozzie waited for Neal to finish his ale and then said, "Come on, I'll introduce you to the owner."

Neal stood as Mozzie walked out from behind the bar. Neal tried to suppress his wince when pain shot through his side, but Mozzie noticed it.

"What happened to you?"

"Let's just say Keller and I didn't part on good terms. I'm fine. I'll tell you more later."

He followed Mozzie through a door that led to a hallway. Mozzie knocked on a door, and a female voice beckoned him to come in.

The door led to a sitting room. Sitting by the fireplace was an older woman in a lavender dress that looked too classy for a place like White Hills. She stood when they entered.

"Well, well. Who have we here?"

"June," Mozzie said, "this is my friend that I told you about, Neal Caffrey. Neal, this is June Ellington, the owner of this fine establishment."

"Ma'am," Neal said with a nod. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise," she said with a smile. "But please, call me June. Mozzie told me he had invited you to come. I'm glad you were able to. I imagine you'll be staying a while?"

"If I'm welcome."

The truth was, he had no plans. He would like to stay with Mozzie for a while, if possible, but with the marshals after him, who knew what the future would bring? Still, there was only so far he could run. Eventually, he would hit the Pacific, and then where would he go? Either north or south. Perhaps he could flee to Mexico.

June led the two of them upstairs. The act of climbing the flights made his stitches hurt, but he didn't complain. Soon, he would be able to rest. June led them to the very top floor.

"I don't normally let this room out," June said as she unlocked the door at the top of the stairs. "I'm afraid it gets warm in the summer, but if you open the window, you should be comfortable enough."

It was a spacious room with a tall ceiling. There was a brass bed against one wall, and an armoire. A desk and chair sat against the opposite wall.

The heat was stifling and the air was stale, but when June walked across the room and opened the window, a nice breeze came in.

Neal smiled as he looked around. The room wasn't much, but it was better than the other places he'd stayed lately. And it was infinitely better than the tiny cell he'd had in prison.

"This is perfect," he said. "How much will it be?"

He tried to ask the question casually. Truthfully, he had very little money. He'd spent most of what he had on train tickets and new clothes. And thanks to his connection to Keller's notoriety, he'd had to be careful about running cons. There was too much risk if he called attention to himself.

But June said, "We can worry about that later. For now, you are a guest. And not a paying one. Perhaps if you stay, we can find a way for you to work here at the hotel."

Neal smiled. Perhaps his luck was changing for the better.

It had been ages since Neal had taken a bath. It was a luxury he relished. He hadn't been able to take a proper bath once during his years in prison, and since getting out, he'd taken advantage of such luxuries as often as possible.

The door opened, and Neal turned his head to see Mozzie enter the room.

"You don't knock?" Neal asked dryly.

"Please. Like I need to. It's your first day here, and you want to spend it soaking in your own filth?"

Neal glared at him. "The water is clean."

Mozzie pulled the chair out from the desk and sat down. "You said you'd tell me what you've been doing."

"I told you. I agreed to do some jobs with Keller."

"And?"

"We did a couple cons together, but then he decided he wanted to rob trains. Even got a gang together. You know how I feel about guns."

"They think you were involved in a train robbery. Is that true?"

Neal raised his eyebrows. "You know me. Armed robbery isn't my style."

"And I take it that didn't sit well with Keller."

"We got in a fight. I think he was worried I'd try to stop him. Tried to stab me with a knife."

"Are you okay?"

"I've been worse. Believe me."

Best not the mention what a close call it was, how the wound could have killed him if Keller had stabbed him an inch or two higher.

"So," Mozzie said after a minute. "How do you like it out west?"

"There's a lot a lot of space."

Neal leaned back in the tub. He missed New York. Yes, the city was crowded and filthy, but he liked the life and activity. But there had been nothing left there for him.

Sometimes he thought about going abroad. He could settle in London or Paris. But he would need money for that.

Neal braced his hands on the edges of the wooden tub and stood up. It was hard to stand with his injury, but once he was on his feet, it wasn't so bad. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Mozzie's gaze lingering on his back.

"They did that to you in prison, didn't they?" Mozzie asked, anger creeping into his voice.

Neal just reached for his towel. "It's not that bad, Moz."

In truth, the scars bothered him sometimes. But all things considered, the whippings he'd gotten for breaking rules hadn't been the worst part of prison. And he'd managed to stay on the good side of the warders for the most part.

"I should have found a way to break you out," Mozzie said.

"I'm fine. And I don't want to talk about prison. It seems like you've done well for yourself here. Being a barman suits you."

As he stepped out of the tub, he turned so Mozzie wouldn't see the stab wound with its makeshift stitches. Mozzie was worrying over him enough as it was.

"June is a very special woman. I think you'll like her."

The fondness in Mozzie's voice surprised Neal. Mozzie seldom made ties with others. Neal had thought that perhaps the two of them could leave this place and settle someplace else. San Francisco, maybe. But he didn't want to lure Mozzie away from a place that suited him.

Neal quickly dried himself and pulled on some clean underthings and a fresh shirt.

"I have something to show you," he said. He grabbed his jacket from where it lay on the bed and reached into the pocket, pulling out the map. He walked over to the desk against the wall and unfolded the paper, pressing it flat against the wooden surface. Mozzie came over and looked over Neal's shoulder.

"What is that? A map?"

"I found it in Keller's things. I think it shows the way to his stash."

"His—Neal, what are you thinking?"

"He doesn't know I have it. He'll never know it was me."

"Neal, the man stabbed you!"

"All the more reason to go after his loot. But I need help figuring out where this location is."

Mozzie still looked skeptical, so Neal reached back into the jacket pocket and pulled out a ring inlaid with an exquisite diamond. He set on the desk beside the map.

"I also found that in Keller's things. Imagine what more he might have."

Mozzie's eyes locked onto the diamond ring. Neal could see the temptation.

"You know," Mozzie said, "Keller has probably already figured out you stole the map. What if he can find his loot again without the map? He'll move it."

"Then we'll have to get to it first."

With a heavy sigh, Mozzie said, "Move over." He began to study the map. "I have a lot of maps in my room. I can compare them to this one, try to find out where these mountains are located. But if you do pull this off, I expect half of the goods."

Neal grinned. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

That evening, Neal ate supper with Mozzie and June in June's dining room. Neal could have devoured the chicken, corn, and potatoes that were served. June's cook had done an excellent job. Neal had been staying in hotels and lodging houses for months, and had encountered plenty of subpar food.

"How long have you owned the hotel?" Neal asked.

"Over fifteen years. My husband, Byron, and I came here when this was still a small town. Byron built this place from the ground up. Not alone, of course, but he did plenty of the work. We started the hotel together. Since he passed away, I've done my best to run the place on my own."

"I'm sorry about your husband," Neal said.

"Oh, I miss him. But Byron and I had a good life together. And there are still many reminders of him." She studied Neal for a moment before continuing. "You're about his size. Perhaps you could use some of his clothing. Byron had an eye for style. You wouldn't look out of date."

"That's very kind of you. I hate to impose...."

"Nonsense. Anything for a friend of Mozzie's."

Neal grinned. This was turning out well. He was glad he'd come to White Hills.

A minute later, June said, "I hope you'll stay for a while, Mr. Caffrey."

"I intend to. And please, call me Neal. Though, you should know that publicly, I prefer to go by the name of Nicholas Halden."

June nodded knowingly. "I understand. Many people come out west looking for a...new start."

Neal smiled, glad to have found a kindred spirit.

When Peter arrived home, Elizabeth was in the kitchen, making supper. She looked over her shoulder and smiled as he entered the room.

"How was your day?" she asked.

"A marshal paid me a visit to talk about some fugitives."

"Oh? I saw a wanted poster when I went to the store today."

"The Matthew Keller Gang. They've been robbing trains and banks all over. Not too close to here, though."

"So you believe we're safe?"

Peter put his hands on her shoulders. "Yes. The marshals just want everyone to keep an eye out for them."

"Well, that's good. I would hate to think of a gang like that coming here."

"I've faced worse than Matthew Keller and his gang of thieves."

"I know. And if you ask me, you've paid your dues."

"You know how it is. There aren't many lawmen in this region. It's up to me to keep this town safe."

The West was an odd set of contradictions. He and Elizabeth had come out here for a better life than they could have had in New York. There was more open land. It was quieter, cleaner. And all things considered, it was more peaceful. Most days, he didn't have to respond to anything more serious than a bar fight or minor theft. And the West was more settled now than it had been twenty or thirty years ago. With the railroad, travel was easier and safer than it used to be.

But it was still a wild land, and they were mostly on their own. It wasn't like in New York, where he'd been part of a whole squad of coppers who kept order.

It didn't help that he was without a deputy at the moment. He needed to appoint someone soon. He'd had his eye on Clinton Jones, who worked up at Sara Ellis's ranch. He was a good man, and though they hadn't served together, Peter felt some affinity with him. They'd both fought in the war a little more than a decade ago, and Peter always respected his fellow Union soldiers.

Once supper was ready, he and Elizabeth sat down together at their small wooden table. Peter tried to keep the conversation light. There was no need to worry about roving gangs of robbers. Not tonight.

The following day was quiet until mid-afternoon, when a boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen ran into the sheriff's office.

"Sheriff Burke! Sheriff Burke! I heard a gunshot!"

Peter, who was sitting at his desk, stood. "Slow down, son. Where?"

"In the Ellington Hotel! I was walking by and I heard it!"

"All right. Run on home. I'll check it out."

The Ellington had a reputation, and it wasn't entirely good. Gambling was illegal in White Hills, but there were rumors about card games in the hotel. Peter had never caught anyone, and it wasn't his top priority as long as things didn't get violent. Though, sometimes he worried about the widow who owned the place. A woman of her age could be vulnerable to ne'er-do-wells.

As the boy scurried off, Peter strapped on his holster and hurried out into the street. The Ellington was a good quarter mile from the sheriff's office, but when he arrived, he could still hear yelling from inside.

He drew his gun before entering, and prepared to raise it if necessary.

Inside, the barman was yelling.

"That was good whiskey you destroyed! You hear me? You'll pay for this!"

The barman, a short, balding man whom Peter knew from his suspicious habit of turning the other way whenever Peter saw him in the street, was addressing a hulking man with a gun.

"What's going on here?" Peter asked in a loud voice.

The gunman turned around, and Peter saw with some relief that it was only Bill Jackson. Peter had had to arrest the man a few times for getting drunk and picking fights, but he was mostly harmless. In this instance, the only victim appeared to be a bottle of whiskey that was shattered on the floor.

"Sheriff!" Bill said. "Glad you're here. This lowlife barman is cheating me."

"It's not true! It's all lies."

Peter held up his free hand to silence them. "All right. Let's talk this through like gentlemen. Bill, could you please put your gun away?"

Slowly, Bill obeyed. Momentarily assured that crisis had been averted, Peter holstered his own gun.

"Now, I want you both to tell me what happened. Bill, Mr...."

"Haversham," the barman said. "And I have nothing to say. It's not my fault Mr. Jackson here doesn't want to pay his tab."

"Horseshit!" Bill said, spittle flying from his mouth. "I don't owe no five-dollar tab!"

"I'll tell you what," Peter said, "I don't feel like arresting anyone over a five-dollar bar tab, so why don't you call it even? I'm sure the amount of the tab would more than cover that bottle of whiskey."

Haversham didn't look too fond of that suggestion, but he grudgingly agreed. Peter stuck around until things appeared to settle down, and then turned to leave.

In the doorway, he almost ran into a man who was coming in. Peter had never seen him before. He was a tall, handsome man with a slightly untidy head of thick brown hair. He deftly sidestepped Peter.

"Sorry," the man said. He was carrying a paper bag that emitted a vaguely medicinal scent. He must have been to the apothecary.

Peter didn't expect to know everyone in White Hills, but he tried to know as many as possible. So before the man could go upstairs, Peter said, "I'm Sheriff Peter Burke. I hope you're enjoying your stay in White Hills."

The man stopped and turned to face him. "Nicholas Halden. My friends call me Nick. And yes, I'm very happy. It's a nice town."

"Are you planning to stay long?"

Nick grinned. "Hopefully."

"Glad to hear it."

Peter started to leave, but Nick stopped him.

"By the way, I saw some wanted posters for the Matthew Keller Gang. I hope they haven't been spotted around here."

"No, no sightings. But we can't be too careful."

Nick nodded. "It seems like we're a bit off the beaten track here. But I'm sure you'll keep us safe."

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw the squirrelly barman, Haversham, eyeing Nick with alarm. What was going on?

Peter didn't know Haversham, but he'd seen enough to know that the fella was suspicious. If he and Nick were acquainted, it may be wise to keep an eye on Nick.

"I hope you'll stay long enough for Independence Day," Peter said. "You should see our fair. There's going to be music, dancing, even a sharpshooting contest."

"I won't miss it."

Nick flashed a smile that was a little too bright. Perhaps Peter was on edge after Fowler's visit. Or perhaps he was bored, and overly eager to investigate something, but something about Nick Halden made him suspicious.

As Peter left the Ellington, he resolved to keep an eye on the new arrival.

"What were you thinking? He's the sheriff!"

"I know," Neal said. "And if I'm going to stick around for a while, I'm going to encounter him eventually."

"But there's no need to call attention to yourself!" Mozzie said. "I've been here for two years and I've avoided saying more than five words to the man."

They were sitting in Neal's room, and Neal was weathering through Mozzie's predictable tirade.

"I was curious," Neal said. "I'm trying to see how much danger there is for me here. I can't stay if I'm liable to be arrested."

Ironically, it was only his association with Keller that was enough to get his name on wanted posters. Neal had pulled plenty of cons since crossing the Mississippi, but they'd been non-violent and mostly low-profile. He'd used aliases and had covered his tracks carefully. By the time anyone could suspect him of something, he was long gone. And by then, there was no way to prove that he was the one who'd made off with the jewelry from the store in Chicago, or that he was the one who'd romanced the sheriff's wife in a small Oklahoma town.

But thanks to Keller, Neal was facing prison again, or possibly even the gallows. He didn't know which was worse. He didn't want to die, but spending more years locked in a cell didn't seem any better to him.

Neal cast those thoughts aside. He wouldn't be caught. He almost never was.

"Besides," Neal said, "if this is going to be my new home, I should make a good impression. Once I find Keller's treasure, maybe I can buy myself some land, build a house. Any luck with the map?"

"It's crudely drawn. If Keller drew it, he's not a very good cartographer. I think I'm narrowing it down, but I need more time."

Neal frowned, but didn't argue. Time was something he didn't have much of. Keller probably knew the map was missing by now. With luck, he might believe it was lost. Perhaps he didn't know who stole it. One could hope....

Neal momentarily considered giving up on the whole thing. The odds were against him, and June had offered him some pay for helping out at the hotel. Neal liked to cook, and had agreed to help in the kitchen. With time, he could save away his money.

But the promise of wealth and treasure was too tempting to resist.

A few days later, June sent Neal to the general store to buy some lamp oil. On his way there, he took his time as he walked along the town's main street. When he came to the tailor and haberdashery, he stopped to look in the window.

He wouldn't mind a new suit. He loved the clothing June had given him. For a man who'd been born near the turn of the century, Byron had had excellent taste. Still, there was nothing like being fitted for new clothes. That was a luxury Neal hadn't enjoyed in several years.

While he was entertaining these thoughts, a woman came out of the shop carrying an armful of paper-wrapped packages. As she started to walk past Neal, one of the packages tumbled out of her arms and onto the street.

"Here," Neal said, bending down to help. "Let me."

"Oh, thank you."

Standing up with the package in his arms, Neal said, "Can I help you home?"

The woman hesitated for a moment, and then said, "I live just down the street. If you wouldn't mind...."

"Of course not," Neal said with a smile. "Lead the way."

As they began to walk, Neal introduced himself as Nick Halden.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Elizabeth Burke."

"Burke? Any relation to the sheriff?"

She glanced back at him. "He's my husband. Do you know him?"

"We met briefly. He encouraged me to attend your Independence Day fair."

"You should! I always help organize it. We're going to raffle pies this year, to raise money for the town."

"If you need any help, I would be happy to oblige."

"Thank you, Mr. Halden. I'll be sure to keep you in mind."

"Please, call me Nick."

Elizabeth stopped in front of a plain but well-maintained house. Neal followed her up the steps to the front porch.

As they entered, Neal tried not to appear too eager to get a look around the sheriff's house. He couldn't help but take an interest. Right now, Sheriff Burke was the main obstacle between him and a life safe from the arm of the law.

The interior was nicer than he'd expected. It could be hard to find much culture in some of these smaller towns, but while the furnishings were modest, care had obviously gone into them. As they stepped into the parlor, Neal noticed a painting on the wall. It was a picture of a ship on the sea.

"I love that painting," Elizabeth said behind him. "It was one of the things I insisted we take when we left New York. That's the hardest part, isn't it? Deciding what you can bear to part with and what you should bring."

Looking over his shoulder, Neal said, "You're from New York?"

"Yes. Peter and I spent most of our lives in the city. We came out here—my, I suppose it's been almost a decade now. After the war, we wanted a change."

"Still, there's no place like New York City, is there?"

"You're from New York, too?" She took the package from his arms. "That's wonderful. It's always nice to meet someone who came from the same place. When did you leave?"

"Earlier this year," Neal said. He started to formulate a story in his mind, just in case she asked for details. But she didn't.

"You'll have to visit for supper soon. Peter and I would love to hear about how the city is now."

As if on cue, the front door opened and Sheriff Burke came in. He stopped short when he saw Neal in the parlor.

"Oh! Peter, I'm glad you're home. Nick—Mr. Halden said you're acquainted?"

Nodding, Peter said, "We've met." He kept his eyes locked on Neal, and something about his gaze made Neal feel like his skin was crawling.

In different circumstances, Neal might have suspected jealousy. Mrs. Burke was a lovely woman, after all, and Neal had his share of experience romancing the wives of public officials. But the look in Peter's eyes didn't resemble jealously. Peter looked like a cat eyeing a mouse.

"He was kind enough to help me carry some things home," Elizabeth continued. "Did you know he's also from New York?"

"I didn't, no."

Neal beamed, though inwardly, he wondered if there was any way Peter might know about his history in New York. But no, that was unlikely. Elizabeth said they'd left almost a decade ago. Neal had just been starting his life of crime, then, stealing loaves of bread and apples from vendors just to keep his belly full. He hadn't mastered the art of finer thefts yet.

"I was just saying that we should have Nick over for supper one evening. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Peter hesitated, but Neal gave them a carefree smile.

"I would love to have supper with White Hills' renowned sheriff. It would be an honor."

"I just find him odd, is all," Peter said as he lay in bed that night.

Elizabeth sat in front of her vanity, braiding her hair. She looked at him in the mirror.

"He seems like a perfectly nice gentleman to me."

"Confidence men know how to trick you. He matches the description of Neal Caffrey."

"And do you have a picture of this Mr. Caffrey?"

Peter didn't, and that was the trouble. He couldn't very well summon the marshals based on his gut, even if his gut was rarely wrong.

"Just be careful around him. I don't trust him."

Elizabeth got up and climbed into bed beside him. She kissed him on the cheek. "I will. But if you're so convinced he's not who he says he is, wouldn't it be best to keep him close? If we have him over for supper, that will give you a chance to talk to him more."

Peter didn't like the thought of his wife spending time with a man who might have been involved in a deadly train robbery. But she was right. He wouldn't find out anything from keeping Nick away.

And perhaps El was right, and Nick was really who he claimed he was. If he wasn't, Peter would find out. Outlaws always revealed themselves eventually.

Mozzie had had the map for a week, and Neal was getting antsy for some progress.

Keller must have known that the map was missing by now. With luck, he didn't know what happened to it. But there was still the risk that he would move his loot.

He didn't dare tell Mozzie, but Neal decided he needed to seek another opinion on the map. One afternoon, while Mozzie tended the bar, Neal went to find Diana Berrigan.

He'd heard of Diana from the regulars at the Ellington. She had quite the reputation. There was a rumor that she'd disguised herself as a man and tried to join the U.S. cavalry. Now she kept a room in a boarding house in town, though she frequently explored the surrounding territory and traded with the Ute people who lived to the south. People said nobody knew the territory better than she did.

Neal had made a copy of the map. He brought that with him, leaving the original in the safety of Mozzie's room at the Ellington.

The woman at the boarding house looked at Neal with some suspicion when he asked for direction to Diana's room, but she told him to go up to the second floor and to the end of the hall. Neal didn't think much about the impropriety of visiting a woman at her home alone. He'd done it before, and with less pure intentions.

When Diana Berrigan answered the door, however, Neal realized she wasn't the type of woman he was used to charming. She looked at him skeptically, with narrowed eyes, and she was dressed like a man, in trousers and a rough-hewn shirt.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

He put on his most charming smile, anyway. "My name is Nick Halden. I heard you're the expert on this region."

She leaned on the doorway, blocking both his entrance and his view of the inside of the room.

"That's right. And?"

"I have a map, but it's small. I was wondering if you might know what area it's depicting." She didn't respond, so he reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded square of paper. He straightened it out and handed it to her.

She studied it for a minute, and then nodded. "Yeah, this looks familiar. Come in—I'll compare it to my maps."

He stepped into the room and, not being given an invitation to sit, stood by the window while Diana walked over to a roll-top desk covered in papers. Neal looked out the wavy glass window panes at the activity on the street below.

After a few minutes, she beckoned him over. He stood beside her and looked at where she'd laid his map beside another, larger one.

"See?" she said. "It looks like your map is showing part of this mountain range."

"Where is it?"

"Not far. 'Bout sixty miles north of here." She turned her head toward him, giving him a piercing look. "What is this, anyway? Some sort of treasure map?"

Neal shrugged nonchalantly. "Probably nothing. A friend thinks it leads to an untapped silver vein."

Diana snorted. "Not likely. There are some old mine shafts up there, though. If you're not careful, you'll fall right into one." She eyed him up and down, taking in his nice suit and freshly-polished shoes. "Can't see you digging around up there, to be honest."

"I was just curious. I'll let my friend know."

Neal took his leave and headed back toward the Ellington. Mozzie would be furious that he'd spoken to someone else about the map, but at least now they knew where to go. And he doubted Diana Berrigan would try to beat them to the treasure.

As he headed out into the street, he saw Sheriff Burke out of the corner of his eye. He tried to pretend he didn't see him—he wanted to get back to the Ellington to see Mozzie, and he felt uneasy about talking to the sheriff while he had the map on him. But Burke called out to him, and Neal stopped.

"Glad I ran into you," Burke said. "My wife has been on me to invite you to supper."

"That's right. I'd love to."

"What about tomorrow? Around five?"

Neal shrugged. "Why not? I'll see you then, Sherriff Burke."

"Please, call me Peter. I'm not the formal sort."

"Well, Peter, I need to be heading on, so...."

"Right, I won't keep you."

As Neal continued on his way, he wondered if it had been a mistake to ingratiate himself with the sheriff now. Sure, someday, he hoped to live a peaceful life. But between the treasure and the wanted posters, he didn't need too much scrutiny right now. Still, it was clear Peter didn't suspect anything.

"I saw Nick Halden coming out of Mrs. Alcott's boarding house the other day. You didn't see him, by any chance?"

Diana raised her eyebrows. "I did, actually. He came to see me about a map."

Peter was sitting at his desk in the sheriff's office. Diana had come by to discuss the Independence Day fair. She was going to give a shooting demonstration. Peter had never seen a better sharpshooter than Diana Berrigan, even among the men he'd commanded in the Union army.

"A map?" he asked, surprised.

"Yeah, looked like some sort of hand-drawn treasure map. He said it was the location of a silver vein."

"Did you believe him?"

"It sounds like you don't."

Peter sat back in his chair and thought for a moment. He'd known Diana ever since he first came here, and he trusted her. Hell, he was half of a mind to make her his deputy, and he was pretty sure the townspeople wouldn't even balk at a woman in the job if it was Diana. She had a way of commanding respect.

"Don't repeat this, but I think Nick Halden might be Neal Caffrey."

"The one from the Matthew Keller gang?"

"He's the right age, and he matches the description the marshal gave me. He only showed up about a week ago. The thing is, I can't do anything about it without more evidence. The marshal was going to get a picture of Caffrey. If he does, we can identify him. But until then...."

Diana nodded. "I'll do what I can to keep an eye out."

That evening, Nick was coming to Peter and Elizabeth's house for supper. El still believed he was harmless. Peter only half hoped she was right. Was it wrong that part of him wanted Nick to be a fugitive?

When he arrived home, he found that Elizabeth had put the nice tablecloth on the dining room table, the one her mother had made. Peter still couldn't look at a lot of that stuff without remembering the hassle of packing it all when they'd moved.

He barely had a chance to settle in before El ordered him to get changed and put on his Sunday clothes. Peter grumbled at having to get dressed up for a possible outlaw, but he abided.

Nick arrived promptly, and soon, they were seated around the dining room table, enjoying Elizabeth's roast. Peter let them chat for a few minutes. El was eager to enlist Nick's help for the Independence Day fair. El was more or less running the event. She took to the role of sheriff's wife, and always seemed to be organizing something. Peter was glad to see her keeping busy. Life in White Hills could be quiet.

He didn't let the idle conversation last for long, though, before he began his interrogation.

"So, Nick, I don't believe you've told us what you did in New York."

Nick looked up, and Peter thought he saw a brief flash of apprehension in his eyes.

Swallowing a bite of food, Nick said, "Nothing special, I'm afraid. I worked for a bank. Of course, my dream was always to be an artist."

"Oh!" El said with a smile. "Peter and I love art."

Peter didn't actually consider himself an art lover, but he nodded genially. "What's your specialty?" he asked.

Nick shrugged and looked down at his plate. "I dabble."

"And what made you decide to leave New York?"

El shot him a look that said he was being too direct with his interrogation, but if Nick was put off, he didn't show it.

With an easy smile, Nick said, "I wanted a new start. Isn't that why everyone comes out west?" He looked down at his plate. As he cut his meat, he said, "Actually, I was betrothed a few years ago. It didn't work, and the girl took a teaching position in Kansas. I suppose I hoped to find her. I didn't, so...I kept moving. Ever since, I've been looking for a place to settle down for a while."

"Must have been a difficult journey," Peter said. "I couldn't help but notice you visited the apothecary a few days ago. And you walk stiffly. Were you injured?"

"Something like that. It was nothing, really. A silly argument over a poker game when I was in Texas. My opponent was drunk and swiped at me with his knife. But it's just a scratch."

"Well, hopefully you won't have any problems like that here. Gambling is illegal in White Hills."

Nick's eyes twinkled. "Good to know. I certainly wouldn't want to break the law."

Truthfully, Neal's first impression of White Hill had been underwhelming. It wasn't a small town, exactly, but it could hardly be called a city. If Mozzie hadn't been there, Neal would have moved on already.

But the Independence Day fair deserved its reputation. The whole town was covered in banners and bunting, which Neal had helped hang. Musicians played in the street, and by the church, a large tent was set up to display the pies baked for the raffle.

It seemed that everywhere he turned, he saw Elizabeth Burke coordinating one thing or another. Elizabeth was a woman after his own heart—she appreciated the finer things, which was a difficult trait to find out here, in a town surrounded by wilderness, prairie, and mountains. If she could flourish here, so could he, if he got the chance.

Mozzie had made a point of staying as far away from the activities as possible, but Neal was happy for an opportunity to get out and have some fun. He spent the whole afternoon in town, eating sweets and watching the people. He watched Diana Berrigan perform a sharpshooting demonstration. She even shot a playing card out of a man's hand. Later, he watched the shooting contest, which Diana helped judge. Neal probably could have beaten the other contestants if he'd entered. He was good with a gun. But he'd never enjoyed it.

As evening fell, the winners of the raffle were announced. Neal's ticket didn't win, but Elizabeth had told him earlier that she'd made a couple extra pies and that he was welcome to come over for a piece tomorrow. As it got dark, some of the townspeople started to light fireworks, but Neal was getting hungry and decided to head back to the hotel.

As he walked along the main street, he found Sara Ellis listening to a trio of men playing violins. When she stepped away, Neal quickened his pace to catch up with her. She was wearing a lightweight gingham dress, and her full skirt swished back and forth as she walked.

"Miss Ellis," he said as he jogged up beside her. "I wanted to apologize for the unfortunate circumstances of our meeting."

Turning her head toward him, she said, "You mean, when you trespassed on my land?"

"I'm sure you can forgive a man facing dire circumstances."

Her mouth quirked up in a smile. "In my experience, it's safer to forgive after the fact than to take chances. My ranch is too far for the sheriff to reach us quickly, and there are people who don't take kindly to an unmarried woman dominating the cattle business in this region."

"You thought I might be a saboteur."

"Edgar Halbridge has tried it before. He owns the only other ranch in the area. He'd love to get my land. He tried to buy it after my parents died. And of course, there are the typical horse thieves and scoundrels."

"Which I am not."

"As long as you stay off my land, I don't much care what you are. I'm sure you understand—we all have to look out for ourselves and our property."

He was about to respond when he saw a familiar figure in the distance, sticking out from the side of a building. His heart leaped and his mouth went dry.

"Excuse me," he said to Sara. She didn't seem to notice his change in demeanor, or pay attention to where he was going.

The figure had disappeared, and Neal hoped he'd been wrong. It was getting dark, after all.
But as he hurried toward the building and turned the corner, Neal saw him. Leaning against the side, eating an apple, was Matthew Keller.

Keller casually turned and looked at him. "Neal. Good to see you. I was hoping I'd see you. You never could resist a good party."

"Keller. What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you. What did you think? You have something of mine, Neal. If you give it back, I might just leave here without killing you."

Neal's heart pounded in his chest. He looked over his shoulder, trying to make sure they weren't being watched.

"There are wanted posters with your face on it, you know. Someone will recognize you. You shouldn't have come here."

"I know, so let's take care of business. Give it back, Neal."

Neal shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, Neal, it's insulting that you think you can lie to me."

"Okay, you're right. I took a ring from your bag. I'll give it back."

Keller snorted. "I don't care about a ring. I want my map."

"What map?"

"I'll tell you what—there's an old hollowed out tree near the road leading to town. You have until dawn tomorrow to put the map inside it for me to collect. If you don't, I'm going to have to do something unfortunate to make you cooperate."

"Even if I took it, why does it matter? Can't you figure out where you hid your loot without the map?"

Keller looked away, and Neal could swear he looked a little ashamed.

"You kidding me? Those mountains all the look the same. Just give me back the map, Neal, and no one has to get hurt." He turned to leave, and then stopped. Looking over his shoulder, he said, "By the way, you're looking good, Neal. I'm sorry I lost my temper the last time we spoke. Don't make me lose it again, okay?"

Keller turned and left, leaving Neal feeling like he'd been stabbed again.

Peter was in the heart of town, listening to a girl sing the Star-Spangled Banner, when Diana caught his eye.

She looked concerned, and Peter quickly excused himself.

Once they were away from the crowd, Diana didn't waste any time. "Sheriff, Matthew Keller is here."

"What? Are you sure?"

"I saw him plain as day, before he disappeared. He was talking to your Nick Halden."

Peter took a deep breath. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the seriousness of the situation. It had been exciting enough to suspect Nick of being Neal Caffrey, but the fact was that Keller was a murderer and Caffrey might have killed, too. At the very least, he was complicit.

"Are you sure? It's dark...."

Putting her hands on her hips, Diana said, "When I was traversing the mountains, I could spot a coyote in the dead of night as long as there was a sliver of moon. I think I can recognize an outlaw."

"Show me where they were," Peter said, he voice cold.

As he followed Diana down the street, he felt like a train on a track. He moved almost without thinking, propelled by the force of necessity. He was the sheriff, and he would do whatever needed to be done.

He didn't actually expect Caffrey to still be around, but to his surprise, "Nick Halden" was still standing in the spot Diana indicated. He had his hands on his hips and was pacing.

Peter didn't pause to see what was worrying him. Striding up to him, he said, "Neal Caffrey, you're under arrest."

Before Caffrey could react, Peter grabbed his arm. For a moment, he merely gaped at Peter, blinking. Then he tried to pull away.

"What's going on? What did you call me?"

"Stop it. I know you're Neal Caffrey. And I know you were just talking to Matthew Keller. Where is he?"

Panic flooded Caffrey's face. "I don't know, I swear! You have this all wrong."

"Are you going to come quietly, or do you want to make a scene in front of the whole town?"

He didn't really expect that to calm Caffrey down, but it worked.

Peter marched Caffrey to the sheriff's office. Diana followed close behind. Peter wondered if he needed to raise the alarm. If the town was in danger, people needed to know. They needed to prepare. But if he could get Caffrey to tell him what Keller was up to, maybe he could catch Keller and the rest of his gang before Keller knew he'd been found out.

The sheriff's office was dark, and Peter asked Diana to light the lamps. He wasted no time locking Caffrey in one of the few cells. Caffrey clutched the bars in his fists, his knuckles turning white.

"This is all a mistake. You have to—"

Peter raised his hand to silence him. "Spare it. I'm going to send a telegraph for the marshals to come and get you. If you tell me what Keller is up to, maybe I can curry a little favor for you. It could make a difference when you go to trial."

Caffrey said nothing. Peter gritted his teeth.

"Listen, I swore to protect this town, and I won't let anything happen to these fine people on my watch. So if your little gang is lurking out there, and you don't help me out here, whatever happens is on you. And you'd better believe I won't forget it."

Caffrey released the bars and stepped back a few inches. "It's not my gang. And Keller doesn't want anything with the town. At least, not that I know of. I have something he wants."

"What?"

Caffrey hesitated. "A map. That's all."

"Sheriff?" Diana said.

Peter turned around to face her. She looked concerned.

"Should we warn everyone?" she asked.

Peter looked out the window. Loud pops and bangs filled the air, but it was only the sound of the rockets the townspeople were setting off. There was no sign of trouble. At least not yet.

"We'll need to, but let's not raise a panic just yet. Go find Clinton Jones. See if he and some of the other men from Miss Ellis's ranch would be able to help patrol the town tonight and tomorrow."

With a nod, Diana said, "Will do."

After she left, Peter turned his attention back to Neal, who was pressed against the bars again.

"As for you, you stay put. I'll be back."

He felt the sudden need to find Elizabeth. Logically, he knew she was safe. But he had to be sure, and he had to tell her what happened.

He searched the streets for several minutes, and when he didn't see her, panic began to set in. He could feel it rising in his throat. Now that the sun had set, some people had gone home. There were fewer children in the streets. But half the town was still out, and it was hard to find El in the throngs of people.

Finally, he spotted her purple dress. Breathing a sigh of relief, he hurried over and gently took her arm, leading her away from the crowd.

"Peter? What's the matter?"

"I need to tell you something. Matthew Keller has been spotted in town."

Her eyes widened. "Are you positive?"

He nodded. "Our 'Nick Halden' was seen with him. I've arrested him, but if he knows where Keller is now, he's not telling." He put his hands on her shoulders. "Listen, when you can, I want you to go home and latch the door."

"What about you?"

"I'm going to stay in my office tonight. I don't think I should leave the prisoner alone."

She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling beneath her white bodice. "All right. Please be careful."

Peter gave her a quick kiss and hurried back to the office and jail. His gut told him he shouldn't leave Caffrey alone for too long. His suspicions were confirmed when he walked in and found Caffrey with one arm through the bars, trying to open the lock on the cell with a metal pick. He looked up when Peter entered, guilt strewn across his face.

Peter growled. "And this is why I'll be staying here tonight to watch you. Give me that." He took away the lock pick and motioned for Caffrey to step away from the bars.

He kept his eye on the man until finally, Caffrey took a seat on the wooden bunk and rested his head in his hands. He looked distraught, but at the moment, Peter was too angry and too worried about his town to care.

Neal had spent worse nights in his life, but that was little consolation when he woke the next morning after a scant few hours of sleep. His back and neck ached from lying on the hard wooden bunk.

Peter had, as promised, spent the whole night there with him. Peeking through the bars, Neal saw that Peter had fallen asleep in his chair, his chin slumped against his chest. Perhaps this was his chance. If he could find another way to pick the lock....

His thoughts of escape were dispelled when the door opened and Elizabeth Burke came in carrying a picnic basket. Peter jerked awake.

"El? What are you doing here?"

"Bringing some breakfast for my husband. And for his prisoner."

Neal perked up a little at the mention of food. He hadn't eaten anything last night, and despite his predicament, he was hungry.

Elizabeth looked at him, and he could have sworn he saw a hint of concern. For him? If he had a chance to speak to her, maybe she could sway her husband. But she didn't stay, instead leaving the basket with Peter.

Peter unpacked the food. "Looks like you're in luck," he said. "We've got bacon, hardboiled eggs, and apples. Enjoy it."

Peter unlocked the cell door to hand Neal his breakfast. Neal decided to try to reason with him again.

"They could hang me, you know. And I never killed anyone. I swear on my life, Peter."

"That's not for me to decide. My job is to hand you over to the marshals."

"But you can help investigate." Neal racked his brain. "Look, the San Antonio train robbery was on May twenty-seventh, right?"

"Right."

"I wasn't even in San Antonio then. The last time I saw Keller was in Waco a few days prior. We got in a fight and he stabbed me. I saw a doctor there, a Dr. Clement. And I stayed in a place called the Hancock Inn until the twenty-ninth. People will remember me. I was going by the name Steve Tabernackle. Then I got a train ticket to Colorado."

To his relief, Peter appeared to be taking this in.

"All right. I'll send some telegrams, see if I can confirm this story of yours."

Neal slumped in relief. This didn't mean he was saved—the marshals might still want him tried for Keller's other robberies, and he had plenty of crimes of his own. But at least they wouldn't be able to claim he'd killed anyone. That might spare his life.

Neal took a few bites of his bacon. He looked up at Peter, who was eating at his desk.

"You know," Neal said, "I really didn't mean any harm. I thought I might stay here for a while. Start a new life."

Peter didn't respond. Not a good sign, but not a bad one, either. Neal decided to keep talking.

"I spent four years in prison in New York. I don't intend to spend any more time behind bars. Not after that." He stole another glance at Peter, searching for any sign of sympathy.

Peter was determinedly ignoring him.

Suddenly, the door opened again. Neal craned his neck to see who it was, and leapt to his feet when he saw it was Mozzie.

He hadn't expected Moz to come to his rescue. Mozzie was loyal, but lawmen practically made him break out in hives.

Even more surprising was that Mozzie wasn't alone. There was a young woman with him. Her eyes were red as though she'd been crying, and her long, dark hair was disheveled. Her dress was dusty, and the hem was torn.

"I demand to see the prisoner," Mozzie said authoritatively. "It's urgent that I speak to him immediately. And alone."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "That's not going to happen. If you want to talk to Mr. Caffrey, you can do it in front of me."

Mozzie squirmed back and forth, but it was the young woman who stepped forward.

"Please," she said, her voice cracking, "they said if Mr. Caffrey doesn't show himself, people will die."

Peter got to his feet, and Neal went over to the bars. He strained his neck to better see Mozzie and the young woman.

Peter held up a hand to calm her. "Wait, start from the beginning. Tell me what's going on."

"My name is Zillah. I work up at Sara Ellis's ranch, as a cook. This morning, these men came. They have guns. Most of the hands weren't there, so they were able to take us hostage. Their leader let me go. He told me to come here and find a man named Neal Caffrey at the Ellington Hotel. He said to tell Mr. Caffrey that if he doesn't show himself by nightfall, everyone—" she choked on a sob "—everyone on the ranch will be killed. And then they'll come to town. He'll said—he said he'll take back what's his and collect a tax, too."

Peter's jaw clenched. "It's Keller." He spun around and looked at Neal, venom in his eyes. "You led him here. You'd better tell me right now exactly what he's looking for."

Neal swallowed. There was no use lying now. He hadn't signed up for this. He wouldn't have taken the map if he thought people might get hurt.

"It's a map leading to the location of Keller's loot. He hid it in the mountains, maybe in an old mine shaft. He needs to map to find it again, so he came after me." His mind reeled as he put everything together. "He told me last night that I had until morning to deliver the map. When I didn't, he must have decided to push my hand."

Peter stifled a curse. He clenched his fists at his sides. "And I commandeered Sara's men to help me guard the town. I left her ranch vulnerable. Dammit." He turned to Mozzie. "You, if you know where this map is, you'd better bring it here."

Mozzie glanced at Neal, who nodded.

"Do what he says."

To Zillah, Peter said, "Do you know where my house is? It's at the end of the street, past the tailor shop. I want you to go there. My wife will take care of you. I'm going to round up a posse and I'll take care of this Matthew Keller and his gang. I promise you that."

As soon as Mozzie and Zillah were gone, Neal spoke up. "Peter, you have to let me out of here."

"Not a chance. I have enough trouble to deal with."

Neal grabbed the bars, as though if he squeezed hard enough, he could pull them apart. "If you go there, there'll see you coming. They might kill Sara and the other hostages. There's another way."

Peter paused and looked at him, and Neal was encouraged.

"Listen, Keller sent Zillah to the hotel to find me, and he thinks I didn't follow his instructions about returning the map. He doesn't know you arrested me. If I go there, if I give him back the map, he'll let his guard down."

"And then what? You run off with the gang?"

Neal glared at him. "I told you—I'm no killer. I want nothing to do with Keller. While I get Keller to let his guard down, you can approach from another direction. Take the gang by surprise. It's the best way."

Peter looked skeptical, but Neal could tell he was thinking about it. He had to see that it was their best shot.

"I swear," Neal said, "the last thing I want is for anyone to get hurt because of me. Let me do this. Let me make things right."

Finally, went to his desk and retrieved the cell key from a drawer.

"All right," he said. "I'll give you a chance."

Neal had to sound sure of himself in order to convince Peter to help. But as he rode toward the ranch on the back of a borrowed horse, doubt started to wash over him.

Teaming up with Keller was one of the few things he'd done that he regretted. There had been a time when he considered Keller a friend. They'd known each other in New York, before Neal went to prison. But Keller was violent and unpredictable, and the freedom of the West had only made him worse, more brazen.

Neal was alone on the road leading to the ranch. Peter's posse had gotten a head start and was heading around the long way to take Keller by surprise from the back. The cowboys from the ranch, who had spent the night in White Hills to help guard the town, were eager to reclaim their ranch and rescue their boss. A few others had joined the posse as well, including Diana Berrigan.

But Neal had to do his part alone.

At the gate to the ranch, Manual Campos stood guard with a rifle. He raised it when Neal approached, and then lowered it when he saw who it was.

"About time you showed your face," Campos said. "Keller's been waiting. Leave your horse out here."

Neal got down and hitched the horse to a fence post. Campos opened the gate to let Neal in.

The ranch was too quiet. Neal didn't want to think about what that might mean. Keller had given him until nightfall, but that didn't guarantee the hostages were safe, or still alive.

If Keller had killed anyone, Neal would never forgive himself.

Campos escorted Neal toward the main house, and as they approached, the door opened and Keller came out. Keller held a pistol by his side, and he gave Neal a cruel smile.

"I'm glad you've finally seen reason, Neal."

Neal started to reach into his pocket for the map, but Keller raised his gun.

"Easy, Neal."

Neal glared at him. "Do you want the map or not?"

"Just don't make any sudden movements. I've love to have an excuse to shoot you."

Slowly, Neal reached into his pocket and pulled out the map. It was the original, though he still had his own copy back in his room at June's hotel. But stealing the loot was the farthest thing from his mind right now. His life was on the line. Other people's lives were on the line.

Neal handed the map to Keller. "You've got what you wanted. Now leave. These people haven't done anything to you."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Navarro coming out of the barn, leading a horse.

"You're taking the horses?"

Keller smirked. "Don't worry your pretty head, Caffrey. We won't take them all."

Looking around, he saw full canvas bags sitting on the ground. They were looting the ranch.

"You've got what you wanted," Neal said. "You don't need to take this stuff, too."

"I'll take whatever I damned well please."

Behind Keller, the door to the house burst open and Jason Lang stumbled out, holding his head.

"Boss!" he shouted. "That crazy ranch woman got loose. She's gone!"

Keller whipped around. "Why the hell didn't you stop her?"

"She hit me over the head."

"What are you waiting for? Go find her and bring her back!"

Neal's heart pounded. Sara was still alive. He just hoped she'd gotten away, or that she could stay hidden until Peter's posse arrived.

"Why don't you just leave her alone?" Neal said. "You don't need her anymore."

Lang staggered off, and Keller turned back to Neal.

"I'll decide what I need. Maybe I'll take a hostage with me when I leave, just in case you get any bad ideas about making trouble."

Neal looked around, trying to stealthily gauge the situation. Navarro and Campos were loading stolen goods onto stolen horses. Lang was off looking for Sara. There was no sign of Wilkes or Ganz. They might have been with the other hostages, or they may have gone off ahead. Neal wished he knew.

Keller interrupted Neal's spying. "You know what your trouble is, Neal?"

"I'm sure you're about to tell me."

"You have ambition, but you don't have what it takes to follow through. All I had to do was threaten a pretty lady, and you gave me what I wanted. One of these days, you'll learn that sometimes you have to be willing to let people get hurt in order to get what you want. If you're really wanted my loot, there was nothing stopping you from going and getting it."

"I don't want to be like you. No treasure in the world is worth that."

Before Keller could retort, a loud shot rang through the air. For a moment, Neal was scared Lang had found Sara. But then he heard the sound of racing hoof beats. It was the posse.

Keller looked at him, his eyes cold. "What the hell did you do, Neal?"

"It's too late. You're going down, Keller."

Keller raised his gun, pointing the barrel in Neal's face. There was nowhere to run, and for a moment, he fully expected to die. A shot sounded, and Neal winced. But it hadn't come from Keller's gun.

They both looked to the side. Some sixty feet away, Lang was on the ground outside the barn, clutching his leg. Up above, Neal could just make out Sara leaning out of the opening to the hayloft, shotgun in hand. She quickly disappeared back inside the loft.

Lang writhed in pain, and Keller ran toward the barn. Neal ran after him.

When they reached the barn, there was no sign of Sara. Either she'd escaped out the back, or she was still hiding up in the hayloft. Neal had to stop Keller from finding out.

"Forget about her. The sheriff is here now. It's all over, Keller."

The barn was dark and stiflingly hot. Neal's lungs burned when he breathed.

Somewhere outside, there was a burst of gunfire. Neal didn't know if he was safer in the barn with Keller or out in the middle of the shootout.

Again, Keller raised his gun. "It's over for you, Caffrey. Not me. Teaming up with the sheriff? Really? How do you expect that to end for you? Were you planning on marching off to jail after this?"

"Who said anything about going to jail?" After a pause, he added, "We could escape while there's still time." He needed to stall for time.

Keller laughed. It was a cold, vicious sound. "What, you trying to play me now? I'm insulted. We know each other too well for this. No, only one of us is escaping from this barn."

Neal started to speak, to try something else, but the gunshot cut him off. At first, the only way he knew it had come from Keller's gun was from how loud it was. His ears rang. He felt like he'd been punched hard in the shoulder, and when he looked down, he saw blood blossoming through his shirt.

He turned and staggered toward the barn door, toward the crack of light. But his vision dimmed and he sank to the dirt floor.

Peter had lost all sense of time. The shootout had only lasted a couple minutes, but it felt like both an instant and an eternity.

In the aftermath, Peter took stock as his posse helped him investigate. There were three men tied up in the ranch hands' bunkhouse, but they were unharmed. The main house had been looted, but most of what had been taken appeared to still be sitting in bags on the ground out front. Navarro, Wilkes, and Ganz had managed to ride off, but Campos and Lang were wounded. Though, judging by how Lang was ranting about a "crazy ranch woman," he may not have been shot by the posse.

There was no sign of Keller. Or Neal.

The last building to check was the barn. With his gun out, Peter approached carefully. The door was partly open, and he stepped inside.

There was no sign of Keller, but Neal was slumped on the floor. Blood pooled around him.

Peter's heart leaped and he ran forward.

"No," he murmured under his breath.

He turned Neal over, fearing the worst. But then he saw Neal's eyelids flutter.

He was still alive. In that moment, Peter couldn't quite explain why that filled him with relief.

The doctor said Neal was lucky. The bullet went straight through and missed anything vital, and as long as infection didn't set in, Neal would recover.

Peter was optimistic. He'd seen men survive worse injuries in the war. Neal had barely woken up since getting shot, but that was thanks to the laudanum. It was for the best. It kept Neal at peace while his fate was decided.

Peter had hesitantly agreed to let Neal recover at his room at the Ellington. The truth was, they just didn't have the right facilities to care for an injured prisoner, and though Peter didn't trust the odd barman, Haversham had proven to be a dedicated nurse. In any case, Neal wasn't going anywhere while he was passed out on laudanum.

A few days after the shootout, Peter arrived at the Ellington to find Fowler standing out front, speaking to Sara Ellis. Fowler had arrived that morning, and even though Peter had been the one to telegraph him after arresting Neal, it was a pain to have to rehash the investigation that had already been mostly concluded.

"Burke," Fowler said with a nod. "Miss Ellis was just telling me her account of what happened. It's a miracle she wasn't killed."

"Oh, I wouldn't call it a miracle," Sara said with a cool smile. "That suggests it wasn't within my ability to protect myself and my land. On the contrary, I was prepared to do whatever necessary to rid my land of that vermin."

"No one would expect you to singlehandedly fight that gang," Fowler said.

"Well, obviously I can't rely on the marshals being around to defend me. If I had needed help, the only man prepared to lay down his life for me was also a thief. Not that I'm not grateful to Mr. Caffrey for trying to help. Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I need to return home. There's much to do."

Peter had heard Sara's full account on the afternoon of the shootout. She'd told him about how she'd hidden in the hayloft of her barn, armed with a shotgun. And how Neal had tried to stop Keller from finding her.

After Sara left, Fowler said, "Campos and Lang are well enough to transport. They'll be tried in Texas. They're both claiming that Keller threatened them into staying with the gang. We might work with them, if they can give us any useful information about the others. It's really Keller, Navarro, and Wilkes we want. The doctor said it'll be a few more days before we can move Caffrey, though, so I'll have to keep Campos and Lang in your jail until then." He was holding a piece of paper, and he handed it to Peter. "By the way, before I got your telegram, we had wanted posters made up for Caffrey. We got ahold of his picture. Of course, we won't need the posters now."

Peter looked at the wanted poster. In the picture, Neal looked confident, maybe even a little cocky. He looked like a man who always managed to come out on top, no matter what the odds.

"About Caffrey, I have something on him, myself." Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved the telegraphs he'd received. "Turns out, Caffrey was in Waco when Keller robbed the train in San Antonio. There are witnesses who remember him. A doctor who treated him for a stab wound and the proprietor of a hotel." He handed the telegraphs to Fowler.

Fowler shrugged. "All right, so he wasn't in San Antonio. Doesn't mean he didn't help with any other robberies."

"Do you have a reason to believe he did?"

"What are you saying, Burke?"

"I'm saying I think you should leave Caffrey here."

Fowler bristled at that. He stood up a little taller. "I don't think that's your decision to make, Sheriff. You know he's a confidence man, right? Seems like he might've got to you."

"Mr. Fowler, I've been the sheriff here for eight years, and I was a policeman in New York. I know criminals, and I know Caffrey isn't as innocent as he tries to make himself seem. I have no doubt he's found himself on the wrong side of the law more than once. But I also know that sometimes it's best to give a man a chance. The only crime we can prove Neal committed was stealing a map from Keller, and thanks to that map, you should be able to find a lot of the stuff Keller has stolen. I also know that when people were in danger, Neal was willing to risk his own safety to stop Keller. In my book, that's worth a second chance. If Neal wastes that chance, I'll lock him up myself. But frankly, it seems like a waste of your time to stick around waiting for Neal to recover when it's unlikely a court could convict him."

That last bit appeared to sway Fowler more than anything. With a shrug, he said, "It's your town, Sheriff, and your reputation. Do whatever you want with Caffrey. Just don't expect much support from the marshals when he robs your town blind."

"I'll take my chances."

Part of Peter wondered if he was making a mistake. But a bigger part of him believed that Neal deserved a chance to prove himself. A lot of people came out west looking for a new start. Didn't Neal deserve that, too?

Peter entered the hotel and went upstairs to Neal's room. The doctor had lessened his dosage of laudanum, so perhaps today, Neal would be lucid. Peter opened the door, stepped into the room, and froze.

Neal's bed was empty.

There was no way Neal could escape. Not like this. He was weak, and as the laudanum wore off, his shoulder burned with pain. He was in no condition to run, especially on foot.

But he didn't have any other choice. He'd heard the marshal, Fowler, in his room, speaking to the doctor when they thought he was asleep. The marshal was going to take him back to Texas, to face trial. So one way or another, he was going to escape.

He'd hoped that helping Peter would be enough to prove his innocence. Well, his innocence in the San Antonio robbery, at least. Still, he had no regrets. He couldn't remember much from the past few days, but he'd heard that everyone survived. That Keller was still at large, but that there was no sign of him anywhere near White Hills. The town would be safe.

Now he just needed to save himself. He patted his pocket, making sure the ring was still there. Somehow, no one had found out about the ring he'd taken from Keller, and he had no intention of surrendering it.

His legs were like lead. He was aware that he was moving far too slowly, but it was as fast as he could manage. He saw stars, and he could feel himself fading in and out of consciousness. He knew he was going to collapse, but he couldn't stop it.

The next thing he knew, he was on his knees. He couldn't remember falling. Now that he was down, he didn't have the energy to get back up. He was thinking about resting a moment when he heard hoof beats getting closer. A single horse, moving at a canter. Someone on horseback. He hoped it was someone who didn't know he was a fugitive, but regardless, he wasn't going anywhere. He had too much dignity to crawl.

The horse stopped beside him. Dust was kicked into his face, and he shut his eyes before looking upward at the rider. It was Peter.

"You caught me," he said with a weak smile.

"You know, for a man who's just gotten a reprieve, you sure are acting guilty."

The words went in Neal's ear but took a while to reach his brain. Blinking away dust, he said, "Reprieve?"

"Your story checked out, about being in Waco. The marshals aren't taking you."

Peter had checked out his story. Neal hadn't known if he would. Hadn't known if anyone would. He was used to people assuming he was guilty. And truthfully, he almost always was.

"I'm not going to prison?"

"No, but I will cuff you to your bed if you escape again before the doctor says you're well enough to be up."

"Trust me; I have no problem with the thought of lying in a nice, soft bed right now."

Peter dismounted from his horse and came to Neal's side. He pulled Neal to his feet, and helped him up on the horse's back. Then, he climbed on behind Neal and reached his arms around Neal's waist in order to take the reins. Neal was glad—he didn't know if he could stay on the horse on his own.

"You all right?" Peter asked.

"I will be."

"Good. Now listen, I vouched for you to Fowler, so that means you owe me. And if I catch you breaking the law, I won't hesitate to put you back in that cell."

"I don't know, after all this, maybe I'd be better suited to helping fight crime. You do need a deputy."

Peter chuckled. "Not a chance."

"Assistant deputy?"

"Right now, the only think you're going to do is recover. Let's go home."

Home. Nothing sounded better than that.