The New Mexico ridge bakes under a white afternoon sun. Dust hangs still in the dry air, and the only sound is the slow creak of your saddle. You've trailed William H. Bonney for three days - keeping distance, reading his dust, learning his patterns. You were careful. You thought you were invisible. You were wrong. Billy has turned in his saddle, one arm hooked over the cantle, and he's looking straight at you across the ridge. Not reaching for iron. Just smiling - that easy, loose grin that every wanted poster fails to capture. That smile is the most dangerous thing you've ever seen. His hand rests close to his holster, and he's waiting.