EighteenOn the day the Federal agent arrived at Bridger, Faulkner was busy checking the condition of some horses, running his hand over their withers, shoulders, back and quarters. Lifting up each leg, he studied fetlocks, hocks and knees before paying particular attention to the hooves. Six horses in all, well rubbed down in preparation for a scouting patrol across country.
“You must be Faulkner.”
The young lieutenant span around, hand instinctively moving towards the revolver at his hip. The newcomer came upon him so silently he almost cried out in alarm. He relaxed when he noted the man's calm exterior, grey beard fringing a solid looking jaw, ice-blue eyes looking out from a teak-coloured face, ingrained with hard lines across the brow. And his warm smile.
“Relax,” said the man, ste
