„I sent him out here."

Gil Favor saw the tears that were threatening to spill from the young man's eyes and it near broke his heart. Out of all of them, Rowdy was the one who always held the spirits up, always telling some good story or other. He was the one everybody got along with. In spite of his youth and more often than not brimming temper, the other drovers had almost instantly liked and respected him. And even when Mr. Favor had made him ramrod, after only a few weeks on his first trail to Sedalia, there hadn't been much resentment. Sure, the boys liked to rile him, and sometimes it was all Mr. Favor could do not to shake his head in exasperation at the antics of his hotheaded second, but never yet had he intentionally neglected his job or his friends.

And now they were standing here, in the middle of nowhere, just east of Rio Salado, where the crew had come together to start a new drive, and Rowdys father lay before them, dead. He had been shot by Marco's men, only once, but it had sufficed.

Once again the trailboss looked at his ramrod. The man, well, boy really, was trying hard not to let the tears spill, not to show the pain and guilt he was feeling. What could he say? Where there even any words to soothe that kind of pain? Mr. Favor tried, but he could not even convince himself, much less Rowdy.

Then again, who else was there to help him through? They were a bunch of rough and hard-bitten men, all of them. Even Rowdy himself had never been one to seek comfort or sympathy when troubled.

When his ramrod turned at last and slowly made his way back to his horse, Mr. Favor heaved a sorrowful sigh. He would have to have a long talk with the boy. Later. When he had managed to work through grief and pain and guilt, when the tears had been dried and this day was nothing more than a memory.

Growing up on a cattle trail could be hard sometimes.