<p>Chapter One<br />

Day broke slowly over the mesquite-studded hills that spread out beyond<br />

the Brazos River. The faint golden glow crept wearily over the distant hori-<br />

zon&iuml;&frac14;&OElig; its warming rays seemingly kept at bay by cruel phantom fingers that<br />

perpetuated the midnight bite of a razor-sharp north wind. Springtime in<br />

Texas was an unreliable season&iuml;&frac14;&OElig; like as not to freeze or burn a man as it<br />

chose. Or so it seemed to the solitary figure leading his horse through the<br />

rocks above the river.<br />

Another man might have found the going hard&iuml;&frac14;&OElig; even impossible. The<br />

Brazos hills had only recently been wrested from the Comanches and<br />

reclaimed from the buffalo. Big-boned longhorns and spotted mustangs<br />

shared the ravines and rock slides with rattlesnakes and wolves. Oh&iuml;&frac14;&OElig; a few<br />

foolhardy men tried to make a go of it growing corn or running beeves&iuml;&frac14;&OElig;<br />

but even they waited for daylight before tackling the treacherous hills.</p>