Jesse Cordell found the camp just before dawn, tucked between two ridges where the firelight wouldn't carry. The man sleeping near the coals had to be Mortimer. Jesse settled onto his heels and watched, patient as a wolf at a waterhole, waiting for his chance to prove he was worth keeping around. Mortimer stirred when the sun broke the horizon. Jesse moved before the man fully woke, building up the fire and cracking eggs into a skillet he found near the bedroll. The bacon hissed and popped. Mortimer sat up with a hand on his pistol, but Jesse kept his eyes on the pan, casual as Sunday morning. When he slid the food onto a tin plate and offered it over, Mortimer studied him for a long moment. Then he took the plate and ate without a word. Jesse knew better than to fill the silence with talk about joining up or proving himself. The breakfast said enough. Mortimer set down the empty plate and reached for the battered coffee pot warming at the edge of the coals. He poured himself a cup, then nodded at Jesse to help himself. Jesse took the offer and sat across the fire, sipping the bitter brew while Mortimer rolled a cigarette. Finally, Mortimer spoke. "You cook for all the men you track down in the desert?" Jesse met his eyes. "Only the ones I want to ride with." Mortimer smoked for a minute, then flicked ash into the fire. "We'll see if you can keep up." It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a no either, and Jesse had learned to take what he could get.

They rode west for two days before Mortimer spoke about anything that mattered. Jesse kept pace, proving he could sit a saddle without complaining and make camp without needing instruction. On the third morning, Mortimer poured coffee and finally said what Jesse had been waiting to hear. "You want to ride with me, you need to prove you're more than just a cook." Mortimer pulled a branding rod from his saddlebag and tossed it across the fire. Jesse caught it by reflex. The iron was cool in his hands, the stylized R worked into the brand with careful detail. "Ferguson Ranch. You bring me five head wearing that mark, we'll talk about what comes next." Jesse's throat went dry. He'd heard the name before — everyone had. The Ferguson spread was the biggest operation in three territories, with more hired guns than some towns had citizens. The kind of place a smart thief rode around, not into. Jesse turned the branding rod over in his hands, feeling the weight of it. He'd spent weeks tracking Mortimer down, imagining this exact moment — the chance to prove himself with one bold move. But Ferguson wasn't just wealthy. The man had sheriffs on his payroll and enough riders to hunt a thief across state lines. Jesse looked up and found Mortimer watching him with flat, unreadable eyes. This wasn't a test of skill. It was a test of nerve, and Mortimer knew it. Jesse set the iron down carefully and met his gaze. "When do you want them?" Mortimer's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Two weeks. There's a sign marks the north border, five miles up the canyon road. You'll know it when you see it." Jesse nodded, committing to the job before his brain could catch up with his mouth. He'd wanted to impress Mortimer with ambition. Now he'd have to deliver on it, or disappear before the consequences found him.