For two bright kids traveling West with their parents in a covered wagon, there's plenty to see, moving slowly through the country, making camp at a different place every night: strange birds and flowers, animal life. The wild and wilderness scenery. All in all a whole lot of interesting stuff. Like right now they were peering down at a most intriguing trailside discovery. At something they'd never seen before. But knew pretty well what it was. A dead man. Called Adam Steele.
Filthy dirty, clothes sweated and grimed, blood, black and congealed, soaked through across the chest, a rope burn around the neck, flies gathering. Not too hard for a couple of bright kids to identify.
Except that even the most careful observer can make a mistake. Not dead. Just as near as dammit.
Just enough life to feel the agony that seared through him at every shallow rasping breath. Not knowing that the kids had a father, a doctor, who might just be able to patch him up enough to face a hanging.