The big question Skeeter couldn’t answer from these tracks, however, was whether or not any of the Time Tours guides or drovers searching ahead of them might be in the pay of the Ansar Majlis. If he’d been part of a terrorist cult dedicated to murdering someone like Marcus and Ianira, he would’ve sent more than one hit man through the Wild West Gate. Which left Skeeter wondering just how many killers they might yet run into on this trail—or how much use Sid Kaederman would be, if they did. He kept his eyes and ears open and hoped they didn’t stumble into an ambush somewhere along the way.
By their third day of hard riding, they’d swung around the north flank of Pikes Peak and were moving east toward the rail line again. They had to call a brief halt when Kaederman’s pony pulled up lame. The detective dismounted stiffly and watched unhappily as Meinrad showed him how to check his pony’s hooves for stones, lifting each foot in turn to check the soft pad known as the frog. They were prying loose a sharp rock from his near forefoot when Skeeter heard it: a faint, sharp report that echoed off the mountains. Another distant crack reached them, like a frozen tree splitting wide open, then a third, followed by a whole volley. The sound fell into an abruptly familiar pattern.
“Gunfire!”
Lots of it.
Kit jerked around in the saddle. “Jeezus Christ! There’s a war breaking loose out there! Kurt, we don’t have time to wait, nursemaid him when you’ve got that pony’s hoof cleared! Skeeter, move it!” Kit clattered off at a gallop just as Skeeter jerked his shotgun out of its scabbard. Skeeter put heels to flanks and sent his mount racing after Kit’s. He leaned low over his horse’s neck, his double-barrel clutched in one hand like a war spear, and snarled into the teeth of the wind. Even above the thunder of hooves, he could still hear gunfire popping ominously ahead. He couldn’t imagine locals producing that much gunfire. But the Ansar Majlis easily could. Had the Time Tours guides found Marcus and the girls after all, bringing them back toward camp, only to ride into the fusillade of an ambush?