Robert Strode had chased the drifter for two days, and now the road split into three, with no sign to tell him which fork the thief had taken. He sat heavy in the saddle, glasses fogged, his reddish arms aching from the reins. Ten years of savings gone. The man had smiled, shaken Robert's hand, and ridden off with every coin. Robert had sworn to get all of it back, but a wrong turn here would end the chase for good. He climbed down and studied the ground. His pony waited, patient, the golden mane bright against its brown coat. The animal was sturdy and calm, the only reason Robert had gained any ground at all. He rubbed its neck and whispered, "Help me read this, will you?" The left fork was dry and stony. The middle sank into mud. The right ran flat and dusty. Robert crouched over each. The mud held no tracks. The stone showed nothing. But the dusty road carried a single fresh hoofprint, then another, spaced fast and long. The drifter had ridden hard down the right fork. Robert stood too quickly and his knees complained. He looked back the way he had come. Every mile past this point would be new country. If the trail died ahead, he would have no way home and no way forward. He dug into his saddlebag and pulled out a handful of smooth, colored stones he had gathered from a creek days ago. He set three of them at the mouth of the right fork, stacked plain against the dust. A marker. If he had to turn back, the stones would show him where the roads met. He would not wander lost while the thief slept easy. Then his fingers found the little matchbook in the bag. Hotel Central, Old Town, the cover read. He had taken it from the room where the drifter first spun his lie. Robert had kept it without knowing why. Now he understood. The man came from somewhere. A hotel was a name, a town, a place a coward returned to. If the tracks failed, the matchbook would not. He pushed it deep into his coat pocket, safe against his chest. Robert mounted again. The pony turned onto the dusty road without complaint. Ahead the land dropped into low hills he had never crossed, empty and pale under the sun. "Come on," he said. "He's close." The pony broke into a trot. Behind them the colored stones marked the crossing, small and bright. Robert did not look back. He had chosen the fork, and the trail was fresh, and for the first time in two days the distance between him and his money was shrinking. By dusk the hills opened, and below sat a town Robert had never seen, its rooftops crowded around a single tall building. He drew rein and squinted through his fogged glasses. The building matched the drawing on the matchbook.

Robert tied his pony to a rail outside the tall hotel and stepped into the lobby. His shirt stuck to his back. Dust coated his boots and sleeves. A clerk behind the desk looked him over, then glanced away. Two men near the window stopped talking. Robert knew the look. He was a stranger here, sweaty and worn, and no one wanted to meet his eyes. He wiped his glasses and walked to the desk anyway. "Afternoon," he said. "I'm looking for a man. He rides a dark horse. Carries a leather pouch, heavy with coins." He described the drifter's smile, his clothes, the way he talked fast and easy. The clerk shook his head. "Don't know him," she said. A second worker shrugged the same. Robert felt the chase slipping. He pressed harder, naming the stolen things one by one. The clerk only stepped back. "We get a lot of folks through," she said. "Can't keep track." Her voice had an edge now. The men by the window watched him like he was trouble. Robert's throat went tight. He reached into his coat and pulled out the matchbook. He set it on the desk, the little hotel printed on its cover. "I came because of this," he said. "I'm not here to start anything. I just want what's mine." An old man rose from a chair in the corner. He had been reading a paper, and he folded it slow. He crossed the lobby with a cane and tapped it once on the floor. "You the one asking about the coin man?" he said. His eyes were sharp under white brows. "Saw him. Two nights back." The room went quiet. The clerk busied herself with papers. Robert turned to face the old man. "You saw him?" "Stayed one night. Had a fat pouch and a nervous way about him." The old man leaned on the cane. "Those things you listed. He had some of them. Spread them on that very table, counting." He nodded toward the window. Robert's heart pounded. "Where did he go?" "Left yesterday morning. Rode north." The old man watched Robert's face. "There's a town that way. Got a pawn shop. A man with goods to sell would go there." Robert gripped the desk. The trail was warm again. Two days behind had become one. "North," he repeated. "Thank you." The old man returned to his chair and shook his paper open. The clerk said nothing. Robert pushed the matchbook back into his coat and walked out into the heat. His pony lifted its head, golden mane bright in the low sun. Robert untied the reins and climbed up, his knees stiff. He looked north, where the road climbed again into hills. A pawn shop meant the drifter was selling. If Robert reached it before the coins were spent, he could still get them back. "One day behind," he told the pony. "We ride at first light."