There were so many tracks the raiders left behind that their trail cut through the snow like a scar. But he searched for only one — the steel‑shod horse with the odd outward jig in its step. He had seen that print before, in another winter raid, another place left smoking and silent. Something about this burned cabin felt the same, as if the past had circled back to meet him.
He walked now, leading his weary horse through the drifts, the animal’s breath rising in tired clouds. He had pushed his horse and himself hard today; he could feel they were close. Walking let him study each mark, each churn of snow, each clue the storm had not yet swallowed. Even his horse seemed to sense the one track that mattered.
The cold bit through his buffalo robe, but he barely felt it. The raiders were ahead. The memory was ahead. And he would not lose their trail again.