It was called the pass of death, this deep and rock-strewn canyon the small band of horsemen followed up the mountainside. Down in the foothills patches of snow had reached no higher than the fetlock of a horse, but up here in the pine forest of the mountain the horses struggled through belly-deep snow; on the barren places their shod hooves clattered over frozen hardpan. It was about an hour on the dark side of sunup, but the sky was beginning to clear eastward. Except for the sheriff of Red Bluff, his deputy, and the five hired guns, the others were cowhands who worked for Cyrus Danford, the big man riding the rangy sorrel.