James, Jack Hickam accepted her order that he check on the Hunt cattle and search the house for anything of value. After that, he was to burn all the ranch buildings so that Kate Kerrigan would not have a refuge should she by bad luck escape the initial slaughter at her place. “Leave the herd where it is,” Savannah said. “We can’t take a chance on the grass around here. It’s probably covered in ticks.” Hickam merely touched his hat brim and nodded. “I’ll be back. I hope you’ll be looking for me.” With practiced ease, Savannah smiled. “Of course I will, big boy. I’ll count the hours.” Like hell I will, you filthy, rutting hog. The fog cleared just before sunup and the morning light that showed the way to the Kerrigan Ranch also lit the trail for Hickam and his four remaining gun hands. It was way down in the summer and the sun was less hot, the long grass beginning to recapture its greenness. The sky was blue as an upturned Wedgwood bowl and the air, washed clean by the night’s mist, smelled of piñón and late blooming wildflowers.
