Next thing you know, the Swede and his two henchmen toss Cullen into a cattle car and shackle him by the wrists. "We're going to give you a chance to confess to this crime," says the Swede. With that, he and the henchmen leave, closing the door behind them. Cullen pulls at his chains, but they've been wrapped around a floorboard that's apparently not as rickety as it looks. Through the loosely spaced slats in the car, he can see the horse thief swinging to and fro like a piñata in the breeze.

Somewhere in Nebraska or thereabouts, Lily Bell is trudging along beside a river in an almost impossibly green valley. Her face is ashen, her clothes bloody. Still she clings to those maps. She looks lost and blank until she hears horses approaching from the woods. She drops to the ground, wincing at the pain in her shoulder. She scrambles behind a fallen tree near the water. Three Cheyenne men lash their horses to trees perhaps thirty or forty yards from Lily's hiding spot.

Meanwhile, Cullen is passing the time in his prison by having flashbacks and trying to pick a nail out of the floorboard that's holding down his chains. As he fruitlessly tries to scratch out the nail, he remembers a young woman sitting in a rocking chair on one of those wide, wide porches you think of when you think of a perfect Southern house. She holds a needlepoint hoop in her lap and stitches a blue sky and pink flowers. She looks up and smiles at Cullen as he walks up behind her in his gray, woolen soldier's coat.