They were docile, rested, and watered enough that they balked little at being led back across the canyon to the wagon. When Cuno had both hitched to the traces, and he’d checked the snaps, buckles, hames, tongue, and double-tree—he wanted no problems in case they needed to hightail it—he checked on the marshal. The oldster sat where Cuno had left him, dozing in the sunlight that was beginning to angle slowly now over the western ridges, drawing shade out from the jail wagon. The man held his bottle in one hand between his thighs. At least he appeared to be dozing. The marshal’s cheek twitched slightly as flies buzzed around the blood jelled on his chest, but he didn’t seem to be breathing. Cuno touched his shoulder, and the man snapped his head up, eyes bright, almost lucid, in fact. “Got the mules hitched to the wagon,” Cuno said. “As soon as I fetch my horse, we’ll be ready to roll . . . if you still wanna give it a try.” “Did you check on Chuck?” Cuno nodded gravely.
