Caldwell looked at the footprints all around the downed vehicle. "Light frame. Small boots. But I don't see which way they lead. He turned back toward the cockpit, his face darkening. "Who was in that left seat with you, miss?" Remiel looked down at him from the high cockpit rim. Her pulse, visible at the hollow of her throat, didn't accelerate by a single beat, and she said nothing. Before Caldwell could press further, the sound of heavy combustion engines rumbled over the eastern mesa. It wasn't the sweet, whistling hum of Harlan’s Power Wagon or the sputter of Kincaid's water truck. It was the crushing, low-gear roar of a military convoy: six-by-six GMC troop transports and heavy Dodge command cars churning up a cloud of dust along the ranch fence line. "Army," Brawley spat, levering a round into the chamber of his Winchester with a sharp, oily clack. "They're cutting my wire." "Put that rifle down, Red," Caldwell commanded, stepping between the rancher and the crest of the hill. "Walter, get that girl out of the cockpit right now. Put her in that wheelchair and we'll thrash out who gets her when company's all here."