Dance on the Wind

knotted the last loop of latigo, everything he owned strapped now on the horse’s back in those two pitifully small bundles of what little Titus would take west.

Sweeping up his pouch, then his rifle, Bass led the pony and the dun mare toward the street-side doors that faced Third, where Troost stood with his fists balled on his hips, the birth of that Sunday rising behind him as Titus came up and stopped.

“Light’s got a head start on you already, boy. Don’t ’spect you should waste any more of the day—seeing how far you got to go.”

Bass couldn’t say a word. Didn’t, as much as he tried, his jaw working in futility the way it was. So what he did instead was grab that blacksmith again and this time plant a kiss on the gruff old man’s hairy cheek.

Then he flung himself right into the old saddle as Troost stood rooted to that spot at the doorway, stunned into silence, the fingers of one huge, muscular hand brushing the cheek where Titus had left that kiss of farewell.

Blinking into the dawn’s bright arrival, Hysham said, “You find that place what you’re looking for, you let me know.”

Shifting the fullstock rifle so that it rested across the tops of his thighs, Bass replied, “I’ll be back one day. Count on that.”

“Titus, I’m counting on you finding what it is calling you out there.”

“I will, Hysham. I damn well will.”

Troost took his hand from his cheek and held it up to the younger man. Titus gripped it in his, then let go and suddenly turned his face west as the tears began to fall, nudging his heels into that Indian pony’s ribs, leading the dun mare out of the livery into that first morning of freedom.

Pointing his nose toward the Buffalo Palace.

TERRY C. JOHNSTON

1947-2001

TERRY C. JOHNSTON was born the first day of 1947 on the plains of Kansas and lived all his life in the American West. His first novel, Carry the Wind, won the Medicine Pipe Bearer’s Award from the Western Writers of America, and his subsequent books appeared on bestseller lists throughout the country. After writing more than thirty novels of the American frontier, he passed away in March 2001 in Billings, Montana. Terry’s work combined the grace and beauty of a natural storyteller with a complete dedication to historical accuracy and authenticity. He continues to bring history to life in the pages of his historical novels so that readers can live the grand adventure of the American West. While recognized as a master of the American historical novel, to family and friends Terry remained and will be remembered as a dear, loving father and husband as well as a kind, generous, and caring friend. He has gone on before us to a better place, where he will wait to welcome us in days to come.

If you would like to help carry on the legacy of Terry C. Johnston, you are invited to contribute to the

Terry C. Johnston Memorial Scholarship Fund

c/o Montana State University–Billings Foundation

1500 N. 30th Street

Billings, MT 59101-0298

1-888-430-6782

For more information on other Terry C. Johnston novels,

visit his website at

http://www.imt.net/-tjohnston

send e-mail to

[email protected]

or write to

Terry C. Johnston’s West

P.O. Box 50594

Billings, MT 59105

A Special Preview of

RIDE THE MOON DOWN

Here is the eagerly awaited sequel to Terry C. Johnston’s bestselling frontier trilogy, Carry the Wind, BorderLords, and One-Eyed Dream, as readers watch the mountain man Titus Bass continue his heart-wrenching journey through the perils of the Wild West.

Ride the Moon Down is another triumph of the master of frontier fiction, Terry C. Johnston, who brings to life once more vivid slices of America’s history.

Turn the page for a special preview of the opening chapter of this fascinating novel.

The baby stirred between them.

She eventually fussed enough to bring Bass fully awake, suddenly, sweating beneath the blankets.

Without opening her eyes, the child’s mother groggily drew the infant against her breast and suckled the babe back to sleep.

Titus kicked the heavy wool horse blanket off his legs, hearing one of the horses nicker. Not sure which one of the four it was, the trapper sat up quiet as coal cotton, letting the blanket slip from his bare arms as he dragged the rifle from between his knees.

Somewhere close, out there in the dark, he heard the low warning rumble past the old dog’s throat. Bass hissed—immediately silencing Zeke.

Several moments slipped by before he heard another sound from their animals. But for the quiet breathing of mother and the ngg-ngg suckling of their daughter, the summer night lay all but silent around their camp at the base of a low ridge.

Straining to see the unseeable, Bass glanced overhead to search for the moon in that wide canopy stretching across the treetops. Moonset already come and gone. Nothing left but some puny starshine. As he blinked a third time, his groggy brain finally remembered that his vision wasn’t what it had been. For weeks now that milky cloud covering his left eye was forcing his right to work all the harder.

Then his nose suddenly captured something new on the nightwind. A smell musky and feral—an odor not all that familiar, just foreign enough that he strained his recollections to put a finger on it.

Then off to the side of camp his ears heard the padding of the dog’s big feet as Zeke moved stealthily