With him were Hank Maguire, Luis Hernandez, and Luis's son Pedro. The Ramirez brothers were also along. The seventh man was Red Hogan, a wiry little puncher with a wild streak and a liking for hell raising. They were all good men.

It was dark early, because of the storm. Also because of the storm, the streets of Rockfork were deserted. Lighted windows glowed jewel bright through the downpour. They reined in before the town marshal's office, a box sized building on Main Street. A lamp burned inside, but Brannon, peering through the window, saw that the office was empty. He'd hoped to catch Jesse Macklin there.

``Probably just stepped out,'' he said. ``Maybe to have supper. Red, come along. The rest of you wait here.''

With Red Hogan, he rode to the Welcome Cafe. Hogan got down from the saddle and had a look inside. ``Not there,'' he said, getting back onto his horse. ``Maybe he's at the hotel.''

They rode to the Rockfork House, a little farther along the opposite side of the street. They reined in there, Brannon remaining in the saddle while Hogan went to look for Jesse Macklin in the hotel dining room. Brannon had no slicker. He'd put on his old brown corduroy coat and it was already soaked. But he felt no physical discomfort. He was only vaguely aware of the sluicing rain. He hardly noticed the blue green flashes of lightning and the hard claps of thunder.

Hogan reappeared, stopped on the hotel porch, lifted a hand in signal. Brannon dismounted and climbed the steps.