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TITUS TOPPED THE RIDGE and scanned the gulley below. The herd had been on the trail for nearly five weeks, and last night they’d lost another sixty head. Rustlers had been picking off little groups of cows for the past three nights, and they were down nearly two-hundred head.
The whole crew needed to find the miscreants that were stealing their lively hood. Fewer cows meant less money, and on top of that the boss would probably take some of the loss out of the wrangler’s pay.
Titus couldn’t afford to lose even a dime; he was desperate to earn enough money to send for his brothers. It had already been six months since he’d walked away telling them to find a farm or a shop where they could earn their keep.
When Titus’ parents had died leaving him as head of the household, nearly two years ago he’d tried to make a go of it with the farm, but he could barely grow enough food to keep his brothers fed. When the bank had finally come looking for their payment, he’d had no choice but to give up.
He had sold off the stock and a few farm implements, but there hadn’t been enough to provide for three boys, and he knew something had to be done.
Weighing his options Titus had saddled the old mule, given his brothers each a silver dollar to hide in their boot for emergencies and turned toward ranch land.
Ranchers always needed good hands, and he had never been afraid of hard work, even if he was only eighteen. He’d been doing a man’s work along with his father for years.
Pushing his hat down over his eyes to combat the glare of the sun Titus thought of his brothers. Not a day went by that he didn’t worry about them.
He prayed every day that they had found someplace safe where they would at least have enough to eat.
A glint, a glimmer of light sparked in the distance and something slammed into him, ripping through his bicep and bounding against his head.
The distant bark of a rifle echoing through the canyon below was the last sound Titus heard as the world went black.
