Disclaimer: All characters and places belong to Joss Whedon. I'm only borrowing them.

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It was a dispirited band that made its way back to the settlement. Three were dead, their bodies draped over the cart, atop the goods that had been where Malcolm had said they were. The others were injured from the gunfight, and Patience's horse had cracked one of her ribs. Nevertheless, they had the food supplements, and had paid far less than they were worth. Three men dead were three men more than Patience could afford, and losing out to Malcolm was a bitter pill, but she took comfort in having gotten him in a bad position and taken him for a hard bargain.

They crested the ridge, and before them extended Mitchell Valley, the settlement of Mitchell curled up in the foothills around the stream that flowed down to Red Lake and the edge of her territory. “Home again,” she muttered from the passenger seat of the truck.

“Least you don't have to walk,” Henry said, clutching his head.

“Is that a complaint?” Patience snapped back. “'Cause we'd all be riding if you hadn't gotten yourself knocked out before the fight even began.”

“Not my fault,” Henry protested. “Man came from behind me. I never had a chance.”

“Forget it,” Patience said. “We've got the food. Don't let it happen again. If that hwun dan ever comes back here again,” she added.

A small crowd gathered on Mitchell's main street to welcome the procession. Thirty or so people, a good half the town. Worried faces peered out from under hats and bonnets as they saw the bedraggled and diminished nature of the band.

Patience stood up on the truck and raised her hat as she passed. “We got the food!” she shouted. Always good to highlight the good stuff. Goodwives Elliot, Dunson, and Cartwright would not be having a good night tonight. She made a note to send a few hands to them to help them this winter.

The truck approached her office, the town's only two-story building, and halted outside. Dismounti