Deep in Indian country, Major Mark Devereaux and his men find a grisly scene: a wagon train savagely attacked, with no survivors. One of the wagons originally with the group is missing; in it is a fortune in gold and Devereaux’s daughter, Mary. The slaughter, Devereaux learns, was not the work of Indians but of a murderous outlaw band. With the stakes rising in a deadly game, the only wild card is Lieutenant Tenadore Brian, who is riding with the missing wagon—against orders. Devereaux knows Brian is a good soldier, but is he good enough to protect a saddlebag full of gold . . . and the life of his daughter? Two hundred vast miles stretching west of Fort Laramie--this was a country! No wonder the Indians were prepared to fight for it. Ferociously, with massacre and fire they swept down on yet another wagon train. One wagon mysteriously escaped. In it, the major's daughter and a dashing, hell-for-leather cavalry officer with renegade notions--and sixty thousand dollars in gold. Ready for anything, they made their stand. Two hundred vast miles stretching west of Fort Laramie--this was a country!  No wonder the Indians were prepared to fight for it.  Ferociously, with massacre and fire they swept down on yet another wagon train.  One wagon mysteriously escaped.  In it, the major's daughter and a dashing, hell-for-leather cavalry officer with renegade notions--and sixty thousand dollars in gold.  Ready for anything, they made their stand. Two hundred vast miles stretching west of Fort Laramie--this was a country! No wonder the Indians were prepared to fight for it. Ferociously, with massacre and fire they swept down on yet another wagon train. One wagon mysteriously escaped. In it, the major's daughter and a dashing, hell-for-leather cavalry officer with renegade notions--and sixty thousand dollars in gold. Ready for anything, they made their stand. Our foremost storyteller of the American West, Louis L’Amour has thrilled a nation by chronicling the adventures of the brave men and woman who settled the frontier. There are more than three hundred million copies of his books in print around the world. Chapter One They had ridden twenty miles since daylight, and at the end of their day had come upon disaster. Two hundred feet below and half a mile away the wagon train lay scattered on the freshening green of the April grass. Death had come quickly and struck hard, leaving the burned wagons, the stripped and naked bodies, unnaturally white beneath the sun. The man in the ill-smelling buckskins brought his mount alongside Major Devereaux. "There was fifteen wagons. You can even count 'em from here. The way they're strung out they must've been hit without warnin'. Looks like a few tried to pull out of line, like to form a circle, but they hadn't no time." "One wagon missing, then." Plunkett's head swung sharply around. "Now that ain't likely, Major, ain't likely a-tall. No Injun is goin' to haul a wagon away, an' nothin' that big is goin' to slip off unseen. Like you can see, they was caught in the open." Major Devereaux did not explain. They were drawing nearer as they talked and he was studying the charred wagons, forcing himself to consider only the problems his duty imposed. If Mary was down there he would know soon enough, and the decision he must make would affect the lives of the entire command. Aside from Lieutenant Tom Cahill, Sergeant Gogarty, and Plunkett, sixty men made up the patrol, forty-two of them raw recruits. They were two hundred miles west of Fort Laramie, carrying rations for the return and for two days extra, in case of emergencies. Throughout the severe winter of 1863 and 1864, the Cheyennes and Arapahoes had remained quiet, but there had been persistent rumors of Sioux agents in their lodges. Undoubtedly they would be riding the war trail with first grass. Major Devereaux, with twenty-seven years of service, was aware that the lives of men are dictated to an extent far greater than most men wish to admit, by events beyond their control. Man rides the ocean of history and does what he can to weather its storms. He was aware that if his patrol became engaged this far from Fort Laramie it could expect no assistance. His orders were to avoid trouble if possible, make a display of strength, and hope the sight of their uniforms would restrain any ambitious warriors. Far away to the east, and months ago, a great victory had been won at Gettysburg, but it had brought no relief to the frontier. Only a few days before the command left the Fort, the commanding general had withdrawn every man who could be spared from the Indian frontier to meet a force of Confederate troops assembled south of the Arkansas River. Plunkett was obviously correct. It would have been impossible for an army ambulance to escape during such an attack. If the wagon was missing, it must have left the train sometime before the attack, which made no sense at all. Why, in the heart of Indian country, with