Tommy Malloy scowled, sitting on the park bench in the dim light of the sun that was sinking below the horizon. He ignored the football that fumbled and landed near his feet, and didn't even look up when Eric Kinesman, leader of the most popular group of teens in school, jogged up to retrieve it.

"Hey Malloy, what's wrong? You ain't even plain' today!"

"Aw, nothing," Tommy shrugged, kicking at the dirt.

"C'mon, bro." Eric sat down next to him. "What's up, eh? Your mom take away your allowance or somethin?" he chided playfully.

"No!"

"Well, what then?"

Finally Tommy sighed and looked up. "Y'know how I was late getting here today?"

"Yeah, man, we already had teams picked, figured you weren't gonna show. You're not sore about that, are ya?"

"No, Eric. I was late cause my brother, Trent, stopped by to talk to me when I was walking here from school."

"And?"

"He's gonna be gone for a while. . . doesn't know how long. . . and I promised him I'd take over his karate classes. Which means I won't be able to hang out with you guys for a while."

"Aw, c'mon Malloy! We already lose you on Saturdays to that chump, just cause he's too lazy to do it himself! You gonna spend the rest of your life serving him while he goes off somewhere?!" Kinesman protested. By now, several other teenage boys had jogged over, waiting for Eric.

"Hey!" Tommy growled defensively, "My brother is not a chump, alright?! He's not lazy either! He just has more important work to do!"

"More important than his little brother?" another boy added in.

Tommy didn't respond, only staring at the dirt.

"That's what I thought," Eric said. "C'mon man, ignore him just the way he ignores you. Blow off the classes. 'Cause either you hang out with us, or you don't. . . ever," he declared.

Malloy was silent. He looked up at all the faces around him; the cool ones, who had the coolest clothes and the money. The ones the girls were always attracted to. . . Tommy already had one of the prettiest girls in school flirting with him. Trent didn't have the money. He wore boring clothes, and more often than not he was barely scrounging up the cash to pay their mother rent or grocery money, or for his businesses. He didn't have the girls. The last girl Trent had dated was someone Carlos set him up with, and that was months ago. He turned to Eric, who was watching him avidly.

"Alright. I'll do it." Kinesman smiled and clapped him on the back. A few random 'Yeah!'s and 'Alright!'s sprang from the gathered boys. Eric and Tommy both stood at once.

"Then let's go play some football!" Kinesman proclaimed, even as the sun went down, streetlights came on, and Katie Malloy sat in her livingroom with her youngest children, worrying over her teenage son.
 
 

The 727 landed in Odessa, a city in southwest Texas not far from the mountains, shortly after eight. Carlos gladly left it, striding next to Trent as they walked to baggage claim with his half-filled backpack slung over his shoulder. He stood back, watching as Trent pulled all their packs and equipment off the conveyor belt.

The blond really didn't mind that his friend didn't help. Besides the fact that he didn't even know what their luggage looked like, the Cuban had also done more than enough work today. When all their gear was piled at Trent's feet, he informed Carlos that much of it was camping equipment stuffed into spare duffel bags that had been lying around his house.

There were five bags, a rolled-up tent, and a pair of sturdy external-frame packs. "You *bought* all of this? What did you do, max out your credit card?!" Carlos exclaimed as the last bag went into the pile.

"Not at all," Trent replied aloud, shrugging off the remark. But silently, he added, '. . . I maxed out *both* my credit cards.' He just hoped that, if things went well, the state would at least *partly* reimburse him for the equipment. "Why don't you load all this onto one of those trolleys over there," Trent suggested, pointing to a row of the luggage carts against the wall in the back of baggage claim, "And I'll go see about a rental car."

Carlos nodded. "Alright, meet me back here."

As the detective turned around, heading towards the luggage trolleys, Trent strode off down the hall of the busy airport, looking for a rental car place. After about fifteen minutes, he found a Budget Rent-A-Car, and forty-five minutes later, strode out with a set of keys jingling in his hand. Renting the car had taken a big chunk of money from his third, and final, credit card, but he still had enough for a cheap motel room and a few meals.

Trent was startled, however, as he walked out of the establishment, to see Carlos walking towards him, hauling the laden cart of luggage after him. Grinning, the black belt walked over to meet his friend. "Got tired of waiting?" he asked as Carlos came to a halt.

Yeah," Carlos relinquished, "First I got tired of standing, so I sat down against the wall. . . you'd think they might have chairs in here or something. . . and a few people actually started tossing money at me!" When Trent started laughing, the Cuban continued, "Really! This group of foreign students, French or something. . . they musta thought I was a homeless guy or something, cause they tossed some dollar bills at me too! I got twenty bucks, all told. I didn't think I looked that bad. . ."

Trent grinned. "Well great! Go back there and get some more, and you can buy us dinner!"

Carlos scowled for a moment, but then brightened at the thought of food, and the two walked outside to claim their rented car.
 
 

He grinned when he saw the car that Trent had rented; a black Dodge Durango. He'd always wanted to drive an SUV, and Durango's were reputed to be among the best, with leather interior, lots of leg room, and plenty of space to load their gear into.

"Besides," Trent added as he slammed the back gate shut, "It was the only vehicle they had that was strong enough to haul a horse trailer."

Carlos looked at him as he climbed into the driver's seat, taking the keys. "Horse trailer? What do we need a horse trailer for?"

"A horse," Trent replied simply, grinning when Carlos rolled his eyes at his answer.

"Then what are we taking a horse for? And where do you expect to get one? I know you don't have an endless supply of money, and neither do I."

"Didn't I tell you? Henry O'Reily. . .the Ranger Company E Captain," Trent added when the Cuban looked at him questioningly, ". . .agreed to lend us a horse as part of our cover. . .a pack horse. He's gonna drop it off in the morning, after I call him and tell him where we're staying. You didn't think we were gonna have to carry all that stuff, did you?"

"Well, I hadn't really thought about it, but I'm glad you thought to ask O'Reily."

"Honestly, I didn't. Alex called him up and asked him to help us out a little, and he called me up with a cover story already planned out, including the horse."

"Oh," was all Carlos said in response. It didn't occur to him just then to ask about their cover story, nor to inquire about what Trent had bought. He simply trusted his friend to have taken care of everything, and his mind was directed more towards food and a night's lodging rather than the next day's promised activities anyway.

It was a twenty-minute drive to Pecos, a small town southwest of Odessa. Walker, Trivette, and Pierce had landed at the little airstrip to the south of the town earlier in the week, and it was only an hour's drive or so from the mountains. O'Reily had recommended staying in the town for the night, where prices were fairly low and it was only a short ways from his own horse ranch nearby.

Once in Pecos, the two men found a cheap motel room to spend the night in. After hauling all of their equipment inside, they had a quick and unsatisfying meal at a diner down the street. It was then that Carlos realized that he hadn't eaten since some time during the previous afternoon.

"Did you buy any food for the trip?" Carlos asked when they were back in the motel room.

"Yeah, but it's all camping stuff . . . trail mix, Power Bars, some freeze-dried meals, that sort of thing. Light, compact, and tasteless."

"Oh," the detective shrugged, sitting down on his bed. That stuff might be great for strength and energy while camping, but it was nowhere near filling. He didn't look forward to several days of it. Kicking off his tennis shoes, Carlos stretched out his legs and leaned back against the pillows piled on his bed while Trent turned on the television.

The other man flipped channels with the remote, sitting on his own bed, until he came across a local news channel. "In other news today," the female news anchor was saying, "The manhunt for the eight remaining prison escapees continues as squads of Dallas and Houston police officers along with their canine units work together with the Texas Rangers. The eight prisoners are the last of thirty-eight who escaped during a riot at the Texas State Maximum Security Prison last Saturday night. These elusive escapees are reported to be traveling in a group, headed towards the southwestern corner of the state, and possibly the Mexican border. Two of these men, convicted gang leaders Paul and Chris Brazos, are the brothers of Naomi Brazos, who was arrested this morning in Dallas on triple-murder charges . . ."

"Change the channel, will ya?" Carlos asked tiredly when he saw the newscast. He didn't want to hear any more about that case.

Trent watched for a moment more before complying; after all, there wasn't anything on TV that he hadn't heard from Carlos. After that, the blond just flipped channels, watching whatever caught his interest. Not much to watch anyway; ten-fifteen on a Wednesday night isn't exactly prime time television.

An old rerun of COPS was on FOX . . . Trent smiled to himself when he saw it, remembering the time Carlos had lucked out as a patrolman and been forced to bring a COPS camera crew along with him one night. Malloy had seen the videotape. There were a few sitcoms on, but he didn't watch those anymore . . . they lost their appeal after a while.

Finally he settled for a Discovery-channel like documentary about wolves. This particular pack lived in the Rocky Mountains of Idaho, but the narrator explained that wolves could range from northern Canada and Iceland to northern Mexico. Trent shivered when he thought of the possibility of seeing wolves while they were in the mountains; maybe a pack of the territorial creatures was responsible for the Texas Rangers' disappearance. After all, the narrator said that they would defend their territory against almost any creature, even man, if they had pups to protect.

As the program came to a close, the male voice, in his fake English accent, began to speak about some of the myths and religions that involved wolves. "In some cultures, the wolf is a symbol of loyalty, and in others, courage and strength. He is sometimes the trickster, fooling man with cunning, if not deserved, deceptions. A lone wolf may run from a single man in the wilderness, but a pack together may turn upon an unwanted visitor . . ."

The narrator's rough words brought memories of an incident not too long ago to Trent's mind. "Hey Carlos, remember that incident with your nephew, when you were trying to find him before those dirty prison guards did? You saw a wolf, didn't you? And Walker stared it down? Carlos?" He looked over at his unusually quiet friend and smiled when he saw that the man was sound asleep, lying, still clothed, on top of his blankets. Trent felt a twinge of remorse at letting Carlos come with him when the detective had just finished a very tiring case, but he knew that there was nothing he could have said or done to prevent his loyal friend from joining him in the dangerous trek.

Deciding that it was probably his bedtime too, Trent shut off the television and stood up. He walked over to the gear, still piled, not looked at and unsorted, on the floor in the corner, and pulled out a wool blanket from one duffel bag. Then the blond quietly walked back, spread it over Carlos, and began to undress so he could go to bed himself.
 
 

Lance Harper jammed his finger down on the 'Power' button of the television and turned off the news, glaring furiously around the bedroom for something to throw. Finding nothing, he stormed out of the little ranch house in the center of the valley in search of a soldier to punish. He was a long-legged, lean, gray-haired man past his prime, though he was still perfectly able to hold his own in a fight and craftier than a den of foxes.

Right now that clever mind was a storm of angry thoughts as Harper jogged across the field in the moonlight. How DARE they? First Naomi goes on her little killing spree and manages to let some wet-behind-the-ears Dallas detective catch her. Ah, so much for her anyway. That woman was nothing but trouble, no matter how good she was in bed, and she'd been screwing up his plans since the day he met her. Then there were those stupid, bull-headed brothers of hers. Sure, Harper had arranged the jailbreak, hoping to add those two men as a valuable part of his border-patrol in the valley. But they were supposed to lay low for a while, clean the smell of blood from their trails before catching a helicopter into the valley. Now those idiots were leading the cops straight here!

A low growl emanated from Harper's throat as he caught sight of a soldier, who was supposed to be on patrol, sitting casually on the ground. One of Turner's followers, no doubt. Yes, Harper knew full well about the growing rebel faction of men, a problem he'd hoped to eliminate with the Brazos brothers' arrival. Until he had the pair of men to strengthen his grip on the valley's operations, all he could do was sit tight and appease the men that he could. But their arrival would be too late; an uprising was in the air, he could feel it. Soon; it might be only a matter of days. Knowing this only intensified the anger he felt towards the Brazos siblings, turning it into a hatred of subordinates in general. No matter. This particular soldier wouldn't be around to bother him much longer.

He headed towards the man, who was relaxing unawares. It wasn't long before he walked away from the spot, wrath assuaged. The body of the soldier lay sprawled on the ground, bruised and broken, but what was another soldier in the run of things? Leisurely, he strode back to his house, pausing a moment when he realized that he wasn't far from the grove of oak trees. He peered into the darkness of the trees, trying to spot the trio of rangers that were chained somewhere among the oaks. Shrugging, he continued walking and went inside his home to rest after the light workout, unaware of the angry, piercing blue eyes that followed his every move.
 
 

Thursday, March 25th 1999
Pecos, Texas

When Trent woke up, early morning sunlight was just beginning to shine through the window on the far side of the room. Deep, even breaths coming from the bed to his right told him that Carlos was still asleep.

The blond lay under his blankets for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, trying to organize his thoughts on what he had to do today. When he spoke to the local Texas Ranger Company's Captain yesterday, O'Reily had told Trent to call him when he and Sandoval got into Pecos. Last night, by the time the pair had found a room, gotten settled, and had dinner, Trent had thought it too late to call in. Would the ranger think six-thirty was too early? Hopefully not. He sat up, rubbing the grit from his eyes that had accumulated overnight, and picked up the phone.

Ten minutes later, Trent was digging through a duffel bag, trying to find a pair of clean underwear and socks so he could get dressed. Eventually he found the elusive items and went into the questionably clean bathroom to take a quick shower.

No sooner had Trent stepped back into the room, fully dressed and rubbing a towel through his damp hair, than he heard a knock on the door. Cautiously he opened the door with the chain lock still in place to see who it was. Through the four-inch crack in the open door, he saw a man shorter than him, with fire-red hair, a dark brown leather jacket, and a dark blue shirt underneath the coat. Well, that was what O'Reily had said he'd be wearing. Trent unlocked the chain from the door and opened it wide.

"Henry?" he questioned.

The other man nodded.

"Trent."

O'Reily glanced over the blond's shoulder as they shook hands.

"Where's your friend?"

Trent motioned towards the dark room with one hand. "Sleeping late. He was tired, and I can handle everything alone for now. That's what I had originally planned to do," he reminded the Irishman.

O'Reily nodded again. "Alright. I'll show you the trailer and your pack horse first," he said, stepping back as Trent walked outside, closing the door behind him.

Malloy walked with an equal stride next to the other man as they headed for his truck and the horse trailer hitched to it on the far side of the parking lot. The first thing the Texas Ranger needed to do was show Trent how to open, close, and lock the trailer; rudimentary yet important knowledge that Trent and Carlos would need for their expedition. A crash course on horse care and management would follow that. Malloy did have some prior experience with horses; he'd known Walker since he was in grade school, and the older man had actually taught him how to ride at his ranch. But it had been quite a while since he'd been around horses, and it wouldn't hurt for O'Reily to give him a little refresher. After that, Trent would meet the horse itself.

As O'Reily and Malloy walked around the trailer, the former talking and explaining while the latter listened intently, the private investigator caught a few glimpses of the animal inside. Trent could smell the sweaty, strong odor that was distinctly 'horse', and he could empathize with the impatience that practically emanated from the trailer. He could hear the horse snort and paw the metal floor of the trailer, irritated at being left in the small area and anxious to get out and run in its meadow.

When O'Reily had explained as much as he could put to words about grooming and handling horses, he opened up the back end of the trailer and pulled the ramp down. Sunlight streamed through the entryway into the dark trailer, shedding bright light on the front half of the horse within. Trent, standing slightly behind O'Reily, watched wide-eyed as the horse stepped forward, eager to leave the confining trailer. The bay mare's withers were nearly as high as Trent's shoulders. Her mane, and tail were all trimmed, but not too short, and a solid black that beautifully contrasted her chestnut-brown coat. Dark brown eyes intently watched the two men from underneath a trimmed forelock of similarly black hair. A sturdy black halter was fastened around her broad head, with two loose loops encircling her muzzle and neck connected by a strap along each cheek. Trent had a clear feeling of hatred and dislike in her eyes.

O'Reily stepped up onto the boarding ramp with Trent close behind him. The horse stepped back, tossed her head, and neighed a shrill whinny at their approach. Henry frowned.

"Lynx, stop that," he said in a warning tone of voice. He stepped past her for a moment, taking a strong leather lead rope from a hook on one side of the trailer. Turning around, he deftly clipped it onto the halter before the chestnut mare could bare her teeth and move to bite him. Firmly holding the lead, O'Reily looked up at Trent.

"Trent, this is Lynx. She's my last horse; Pierce and Walker have my other three. Normally, I wouldn't risk it, but I know it's too hard to carry several days worth of equipment up those mountains yourself. . ."

"Henry, you don't have to worry about the risk, I'll . . .I mean, we'll be careful with her," Trent interrupted, gazing at the creature with admiring eyes. None of the horses at Walker's ranch could compare with this beautiful mare; not tall, but sturdy, with strong, solid muscles under a sleek, shining coat. O'Reily looked at him for a moment, confused, until he realized what Trent meant.

"No, Trent, I didn't mean . . . I wasn't saying that you wouldn't take care of her. I'm talking about the risk to *you* from *her*." When Trent gave him a dubious look, the ranger continued, "There's a reason why she's named Lynx. She killed one when she was still a foal. It had broken into my stables and gone after her dam. By the time I got there, it was too late for her mother, and I had to put her out of her misery, but Lynx was attacking that cat for all she was worth. Kept hitting it with her hooves even after it was dead. She's a spitfire, half-wild. I was advised to kill her along with her dam, but I couldn't bear to. I've never been able to train her to a saddle or bit, but she will carry luggage if she has a mind to. I wouldn't leave her with you if I could help it, but you need a horse, and she's all I have." Trent nodded, but somehow he couldn't quite believe that this pretty little mare had such a bad attitude.

"Here," O'Reily said, handing Trent the lead rope, "Hold that while I get her tack. It's all tied up and secured in back."

"Alright," Trent accepted the lead, studying the mare while the Texas Ranger disappeared into the shadows in the far end of the trailer.

Lynx turned her head to watch the ranger move past her, hostility in her eyes. She flattened her ears and curled back her lips, ready to bite the fire-haired man if he should come back. She did not like that man. She did not like being in this trailer, and she knew that she was far from her meadow. Lynx was startled when she felt light movement on the rope attached to her halter, and she looked back into the sunlight. There was another man there, a new man, holding her lead rope. He moved closer, until he was directly in front of her. Stupid man, didn't he know he shouldn't stand so close to her? She took a step back so she could look at him and make sure he didn't have any weapons.

The man was holding her lead rope limply, as though he really didn't know what to do with it. His hair was a color she hadn't seen before, like the straw that she slept on, and his shirt was checkered in varying shades of brown, close in color to the coat of her dam. Curious about the straw-haired man, forgetting about her animosity towards mankind, she stepped forward and sniffed at him.

Trent watched the horse apprehensively, wondering what the vicious mare's intentions were. He stood stock still, watching her snuffle at his legs and arms. A chill ran through him when she lifted her head to look directly at his face. Cautiously, he reached out with his left hand to touch her soft nose, shifting his gaze from her eyes to her teeth. Her ears perked forward with interest, but Lynx didn't move as he stroked her broad nose, until the soft flannel of his shirt tickled her sensitive whiskers and she sneezed. Trent grinned when the mare looked at him in surprise, and then affectionately butted his shirt with her nose. He continued petting Lynx with a smile on his face.

Lynx was a bit confused at first. This creature in front of her was definitely a human, but his coat was the color of her dam's and felt soft and warm. He seemed nice, but all men were bad, weren't they? The fire-haired one killed her mother, they all had to be bad. But this one wasn't. But this one also had straw-hair. That's it; straw-haired men were good, and the rest of them were bad. That decision made, she stepped forward and nuzzled his shirt, loving the feel of the fuzzy fabric against her face.

Trent was so involved in watching the animal, he nearly forgot about Henry O'Reily, and was startled when Lynx suddenly nickered and side-stepped away from the other man, who had come up from the back of the trailer hauling a tangle of tack on his shoulders.

"I'll be back in a second," O'Reily said, walking past Trent into the parking lot. He walked to a small lot of grass and dirt between the motel and the adjacent building on the right. A wire fence barred the back end of the grass lot, but the front end was open. Trent watched the ranger toss down the equipment with a heave onto the grass while he continued to stroke the mare's nose absentmindedly. O'Reily dusted off his hands while he walked back across the parking lot. Finally he looked up at the blond man standing next to Lynx, and skipped a beat in his confident stride, stumbling. Catching himself, O'Reily quickly covered the short distance between himself and the trailer, all the time watching Trent with an expression of surprise.

"How did you do that?!" he asked from the bottom of the ramp.

Trent blinked, looking from Lynx to Henry, and realized what the man meant. "I . . .I don't know. I really didn't think of it," he admitted, dropping the hand that had been petting Lynx to his side.

O'Reily frowned. Lynx was only a second-generation tame mustang. This was a horse that, at eleven months, killed a fully-grown lynx with her hooves and spirit alone. She never let anyone touch her, much less pet her. She shied away from strange and familiar people alike, and snapped at anyone who got too close. She was a risky last-resort that O'Reily hesitated to lend out, if only because of potential lawsuits against him. Could the mare have found someone she liked?

The ranger mentally shook his head, denying it. This had to be another one of her tricks. Yet when he saw the mare nudge Trent's elbow, eager for the attention that she had missed all her life, O'Reily couldn't negate the fact; something about Malloy had caught her interest. Even still, it had taken four men to load her into that trailer this morning. Maybe he should see how the blond could handle her before he jumped to any conclusions.

"Go ahead and lead her out of there, over to that grass where I put the gear," O'Reily instructed Malloy, who had resumed scratching Lynx's ears with one hand.

Trent nodded. "Alright."

Taking one brief look at the horse, he took a step down the ramp, and felt a wash of relief when the mare followed him. When they stood on the pavement, Trent stopped for a moment to check for cars before crossing the lot. The Texas Ranger Captain followed the man and the horse, astonished to see Lynx docilely plodding in step next to Trent.

The small yellowish blades poking through the ground in the dirt lot between the buildings could hardly be called grass, but the area was back away from cars and some of the noise of the street during rush hour on a weekday. Trent led Lynx to the back end of it, walking her around in a smooth circle to face O'Reily, who had come up behind the pair.

"Now what?" Trent asked.

"Now you put the harness on her that you attach the packs to," Henry replied, picking up the tangle of leather straps and buckles off the ground.

When he walked forward to hand them to Trent, Lynx took a few quick steps to put herself between her straw-haired man and the man who killed her dam, baring her teeth and glaring at O'Reily with vehement hatred. Both men were surprised at her movement, and the ranger had to step backwards to avoid being bitten.

"Lynx!" Trent scolded automatically, the same way he'd scold Moses for chewing his shoes or Tandy for snacking before dinner.

The mare sullenly moved aside when the blond chided her for her behavior, but her hatred of O'Reily was too old and ran too deep for the man's words to have much affect on it, and Trent had to walk past her and get the harness from O'Reily himself. Shaking off the disconcerting episode, the Irishman then instructed Trent, from a safe distance away, on how to arrange and fasten the harness onto the chestnut horse. Going back into the trailer briefly, O'Reily brought Trent several packs for carrying equipment. He explained how to attach them to the harness, and how to balance the weight so that Lynx was not unduly stressed on either side of her strong back.

"Walker never had any harnesses like this for his horses," Trent commented when he stepped back to look at the whole assembly strapped on the horse. Henry smiled. "No, I don't suppose he did. I made that myself."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. Like I said before, I couldn't train her to a saddle or bit, so I had to come up with something to justify keeping her. In the spring, on weekends, I usually help the park rangers clear hiking trails in the mountains west of here, and I'd bring Lynx along to carry tools and equipment, or to help move boulders and rocks off the trail."

Trent nodded, and another thought occurred to him.

"How much can we load on her?"

Although it was empty, the arrangement looked like it could hold four times as much as Trent could carry, and the Texas Ranger had also described how to secure additional equipment to the mare's broad back.

"Oh, two, three hundred pounds, easily," O'Reily answered, studying the horse and trying to remember how much she had carried before. "Since you and your friend are carrying some too, just load whatever you can't carry. Lynx is strong and hardy; like I said, she's second-generation tame Mustang. She can probably haul whatever she needs to, if she's willing."

Trent nodded. "Okay."

"Well, let's get the trailer hitched to your rental, and then that should be just about everything."

They left Lynx in the dirt lot, tied to the chain-link fence, while they transferred the trailer from O'Reily's pickup truck to Trent's rented Durango. Trent made sure it was securely attached, and then the pair walked over to the pickup and stood there in silence.

"Oh, here," Henry said, pulling something out of his coat pocket. A small brass key dangled from his fingers.

Extending his hand, Trent accepted it. He knew exactly what it was for; the key would unlocked Pecos Post Office box number 716, where a contact of O'Reily's assured him that two sets of driver's licenses and hunting licenses waited. Trent and Carlos would use the ID's.

"My contact told me he had them there by midnight last night, and he left the key in my mailbox at my house."

O'Reily turned to head for his truck when Trent spoke again.

"Henry, why are Carlos and I going?"

The ranger looked at the blond strangely. "Because you volunteered to go."

"No, I mean, why aren't the Texas Rangers sending out a team?"

The Irishman snorted derisively. "The State doesn't give us enough funds to go on wild goose-chases in the mountains when there are enough crimes to hold our attention in the cities, especially during this prison crisis," he mockingly repeated the words of his superior. "Or at least, that's what the Senior Captain says," his tone softened, "I know he'd like to send someone after him, but honestly, we just can't. I guess most of the local cops have gone back to their precincts, but the prison escape left the Rangers drained, and the criminals know it. I have two men left from my Company to protect nearly one-fourth of the state."

Trent nodded. He'd practically forgotten about how the prison break had effected the various law enforcement agencies in the state, although Carlos had told him that many of the Dallas detectives had returned before they left.

They were silent for a moment more; there was nothing left to say. It was up to Trent and Carlos to find, and possibly rescue, the five Texas Rangers that had gone missing in the mountains of southwestern Texas. What could O'Reily say about that?

"Good luck," the man said earnestly, climbing into his truck, "I hope you don't need it."

Trent was quiet as the truck was started and the ranger pulled out of the parking lot. "Thanks," he mumbled under his breath, trying to shrug off the feeling that something very, very bad was going to happen before he'd ever see O'Reily again.

An impatient nicker tore his attention from the pickup on the road. He turned towards the sound. Lynx was watching him, ears perked, from the dirt lot. She was almost straining against the rope that tied her halter to the chain-link fence, wondering what the bad man had done to her straw-haired companion to make him so unhappy. She whickered her concern again as he walked towards her. Trent smiled as she sniffed him over again, reaching for the lead rope that was knotted to the fence. The mare tossed her head, her gaze passing over his short blond hair as she did so. The chestnut horse still wondered over his strange-colored hair. Maybe it really was straw.

Trent was trying to untie the lead rope with cold fingers. It was early morning near the mountains, colder than he was used to, and he should have grabbed a pair of gloves before he came outside. Lynx was close behind him; he could feel her breath on the back of his neck. He had just loosened the knot and was pulling the rope free of the fence when something tugged and then tore at his hair.

He let out an involuntary "YEOWCH!" while whirling around and touching a hand to the back of his head. He didn't know what kind of assailant to expect, but he certainly wasn't prepared to see the chestnut mare standing calmly behind him, a small tuft of short blond hair sticking out between her lips. Trent stared for a moment before he laughed, realizing what the mare had done. "Lynx! My hair is *not* hay!" he scolded lightly.

Apparently the horse agreed with him. He'd never seen a funnier sight than the chestnut horse trying to spit out the hair that stuck between her teeth. Sneezing, tossing her head, trying to shake it out, Lynx looked more like she'd eaten hot pepper. Eventually she settled down, and, taking her lead, he walked her back to the trailer, still chuckling. She'd really only taken a small tuft from Trent's head, and there was only a dot of blood on his hand when he checked it again.

He closed up the trailer again after making sure that the horse had hay to munch on and walked back to the motel to wake Carlos.

Carlos woke up with a jolt that morning, half-curled on his side on the bed. Quickly he sat up, looking around, trying to get his bearings. For a few moments, he wondered just how he'd ended up in a motel room and he tried to recollect just what Fox Mulder had done when this had happened to him. It wasn't until the detective stood up and spotted the duffel bags and camping equipment that he recalled that he was in Pecos, Texas, at least a hundred miles from his home, helping Trent with his expedition into the Santiago mountains.

The relief from the brief moment of alarm was temporary, lasting only until Carlos realized that Trent wasn't in the room, and there was no trace of him to be seen. The second bed was empty, neatly made as though nothing had ever touched it. Even straining his ears, there was no sound betraying Trent's presence. Sighing, miffed that Trent hadn't left him a note and imagining hundreds of scenarios where the karate instructor could be shot, stabbed, hit by a car, drowned, or otherwise injured, Carlos paced for a few moments, waiting. Finally deciding to go out looking for his best friend, he headed for the door, only to jump back in surprise when it swung wide open, and Trent, grinning at some private joke, nearly walked right into him.

Trent, too, was surprised to see Carlos standing there, open-mouthed, still wearing the previous day's clothes with one hand extended as though he were reaching for the knob.

"Where were you?" "Carlos!" both men spoke at once.

"Where did you go?" Carlos repeated. Trent closed the door and they both walked into the room, which, in Trent's opinion, was much warmer than outside.

"I, uh . . . O'Reily got here, and he needed to introduce me to his horse and we . . . had to switch over the trailer," Trent explained falteringly.

Carlos frowned. He should have spoken to the Ranger Captain too. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"You . . . you . . . I didn't think I needed to," the blond finished lamely.

Sandoval didn't like his answer, but decided not to push the issue. It wasn't that important anyway.

"Well, then where are my clothes? You said you bought me some, right?"

"Yeah, they're over here . . . somewhere." Trent strode over to the pile of equipment and began rummaging through them, his back to Carlos.

"What happened to your hair?!"

Though Lynx's inquisitive nip hadn't been serious, the missing tuft left Trent's normally neat haircut somewhat uneven in back, and the small spot of blood surprised Carlos.

"Oh," Trent said, smiling, "That would be Lynx."

"Lynx?" "The horse."

'Of course, that explains everything,' Carlos thought to himself, but again, he decided not to inquire further. He'd find out soon enough.

In a moment, Trent handed him a set of clothes. Carlos looked at them questioningly, but he went to take a shower with only a word of thanks. When he stepped out of the small bathroom, buttoning up his shirt, Trent looked his friend up and down, hoping the clothes fit Carlos well enough.

The Cuban's new clothes fit him comfortably and were very warm, almost stifling in the warm room. He wore a heavy flannel shirt, patterned the same as Trent's, but in varying shades of black rather than brown. Underneath that he wore an insulating long-sleeved thermal shirt, and both shirts were tucked into his loose jeans. Underneath the jeans, he also wore a pair of knitted thermal pants. Thick wool socks covered his feet, and heavy waterproof boots completed the hiking outfit. Trent wasn't dressed much differently, only with varying colors and sizes of clothes and boots.

After spending another half-hour organizing, packing, and re-packing their equipment, Trent and Carlos walked out of their motel room carrying somewhat heavy frame packs. They loaded the packs into the back of the Durango, and then went back for the bundles that Lynx would carry. While Carlos made one last check in their room for any items that might have escaped notice, Trent turned in the key to the room, and then the pair went on their way.