The year was 1845. It was Indian summer and deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains the entire McCain family was being buried - except for a lone survivor.
His soft voice was beginning to crack noticeably as he finally addressed the last grave. "I know this is probably the...the... last time...we'll ever be together as a family. If Taylor had known, I know he'd be here too. I promise you that I will find Taylor and let...him know...about this. I will. You have my word. I love you, Pa."
He stood, sniffed a couple of times, and wiped his eyes with a dirty sleeve. "Goodbye."
Jericho never looked back as the flames began to flicker through the cabin's open doorway, nor did he notice the smoke lifting lazily into the afternoon sky. He knew where he was headed. He'd been thinking about it ever since Taylor left. He'd have gone to find his brother, even if he hadn't promised his father.
Texas - that's where Taylor said he was going. Texas! The name had a good ring to it. A clean "starting over" kind of sound and that's what Jericho wanted - a clean start.