Wind Walker

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For all that his steadfast friendship has meant to me and my writing career across many, many seasons—from the Rocky Mountain front to the grand Pacific Coast—it is with honor that I dedicate this final novel in the saga of Titus Bass to my old and dear friend of Colorado’s Front Range, the one who has been braiding the rope others will one day strive to climb,

Kent Havermann

a man who would do to ride the river with, a friend who would stand at my back against Blackfoot …

A man Titus Bass himself is proud to call his friend!

The old man sang his death song then;

His voice rang clear and high;

“O Sun, thou endureth forever,

But we who are warriors must die!”

—STANLEY VESTAL

Fandango, Ballads of the Old West

ONE

“Strangers?”

Without looking at his young son, Titus Bass nodded and eventually whispered, “Yes, Flea. In this country, you must consider everyone a stranger.”

His own words stabbed into the frozen air, hung frostily for but a heartbeat, then were ripped away by a sharp, sudden gust that stirred up skiffs of the dry, two-day-old snow around them, where they lay on a ledge of bare rock.

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