longed to stretch her aching limbs.
Slowly, cautiously, she pushed away the sacks and peered about. The canvas had been laced and drawn together tightly at both ends, but rain was still blowing in. Crawling forward, careful not to knock over crates or barrels, she looked first out the rear but saw nothing but empty wasteland.
Moving to the front, she saw Jasper hunched forward, hat pulled down over his head. He was drenched, and she felt sorry for him. At least she was reasonably dry, although if she didn't return to shelter beneath the canopy and sacks, she would also be soaked by the rain.
She was about to turn away when Cord saw a big rock in the road just ahead. With a curse, he snatched at the reins and yelled out at the mules, "Whoa, easy!"
In that heart-stopping instant, Jaime's hands flew to her mouth in a futile attempt to stifle her gasp of horror.
It was Cord at the reins, not Jasper!
Cord heard the sound. With one hand, he jerked the mules to a complete halt, at the same time drawing his pistol and whipping about to demand, "Who's there?"
Jaime dove beneath the sacks, frantically, wildly, daring to hope he might think a wild animal had got inside but ran away when he yelled. It was too soon for him to find her. They had not been gone from Salt Lake even a whole day. He could turn around and take her back without losing hardly any time at all. And where was Jasper? Dear Lord, surely someone else was about.
She sank down and held her breath.
Cord dropped to the ground. Only an Indian could have been quiet enough to sneak inside without his hearing. In the language of the Shoshone, he commanded, "Come out. I mean you no harm. I will let you go in peace."
Jaime had been crouched with eyes tightly closed, dreading the moment she would have to stare up into his livid face. But when she heard the strange-sounding, guttural words, her eyes flashed open.
Cord repeated himself, then changed to the Paiute tongue. Both tribes could be found in the area, though he'd not seen any. Buffalo hunting was better farther south this time of year. Few braves ventured this far till spring.
Jaime was even more terrorized by the bizarre sounds.
Expecting a knife-wielding savage to leap out, Cord cautiously approached the rear of the wagon. "All right," he whispered. "You had your chance."
His right hand held a pointed rifle. With his left, he drew a knife from his boot. With one quick slash, he severed the gathering cord of the canvas, and it fell open, exposing the interior. He knew whoever was in there had to be hiding beneath the sacks, so with another slice, he ripped open the top bag.
Flour spilled down to cover Jaime in a cloud of white dust, and she couldn't help herself; as the thick powder covered her face, she began to gasp and cough.
"What the hell?" Cord froze for only an instant before jerking away the ripped bag, which filled the inside of the wagon with flying powder. "Who in thunderation are you?" he bellowed, grabbing her arm roughly and jerking her out.
Jaime struggled in his grasp. Hacking, wheezing, she felt as if she were choking to death. He was hurting her, the way his fingers were pressing so brutally into her flesh as he pulled her from the wagon. "Let... let me go," she sputtered amid a snowy spray of flour. "You almost killed me with that knife, you idiot."
"If I'd wanted you dead, you would be." Holding her with one hand, he swiped roughly at the mask of flour. "You aren't Indian, that's for sure. Not with this pale face."
"Very funny." She twisted in his grasp, but he held tight. "Let me go, I say."
" You say," he snorted. " I'll say when I'm done with you. Now start talking. I want to know who you are and what you're doing stowing away on my wagon. If you wanted to go along, why didn't you say so?" He studied her as best he could, with the flour caked on her face. Only her wide, angry eyes were visible, ringed with white. "I don't recall seeing you before, but that hair..." He lifted a
Slowly, cautiously, she pushed away the sacks and peered about. The canvas had been laced and drawn together tightly at both ends, but rain was still blowing in. Crawling forward, careful not to knock over crates or barrels, she looked first out the rear but saw nothing but empty wasteland.
Moving to the front, she saw Jasper hunched forward, hat pulled down over his head. He was drenched, and she felt sorry for him. At least she was reasonably dry, although if she didn't return to shelter beneath the canopy and sacks, she would also be soaked by the rain.
She was about to turn away when Cord saw a big rock in the road just ahead. With a curse, he snatched at the reins and yelled out at the mules, "Whoa, easy!"
In that heart-stopping instant, Jaime's hands flew to her mouth in a futile attempt to stifle her gasp of horror.
It was Cord at the reins, not Jasper!
Cord heard the sound. With one hand, he jerked the mules to a complete halt, at the same time drawing his pistol and whipping about to demand, "Who's there?"
Jaime dove beneath the sacks, frantically, wildly, daring to hope he might think a wild animal had got inside but ran away when he yelled. It was too soon for him to find her. They had not been gone from Salt Lake even a whole day. He could turn around and take her back without losing hardly any time at all. And where was Jasper? Dear Lord, surely someone else was about.
She sank down and held her breath.
Cord dropped to the ground. Only an Indian could have been quiet enough to sneak inside without his hearing. In the language of the Shoshone, he commanded, "Come out. I mean you no harm. I will let you go in peace."
Jaime had been crouched with eyes tightly closed, dreading the moment she would have to stare up into his livid face. But when she heard the strange-sounding, guttural words, her eyes flashed open.
Cord repeated himself, then changed to the Paiute tongue. Both tribes could be found in the area, though he'd not seen any. Buffalo hunting was better farther south this time of year. Few braves ventured this far till spring.
Jaime was even more terrorized by the bizarre sounds.
Expecting a knife-wielding savage to leap out, Cord cautiously approached the rear of the wagon. "All right," he whispered. "You had your chance."
His right hand held a pointed rifle. With his left, he drew a knife from his boot. With one quick slash, he severed the gathering cord of the canvas, and it fell open, exposing the interior. He knew whoever was in there had to be hiding beneath the sacks, so with another slice, he ripped open the top bag.
Flour spilled down to cover Jaime in a cloud of white dust, and she couldn't help herself; as the thick powder covered her face, she began to gasp and cough.
"What the hell?" Cord froze for only an instant before jerking away the ripped bag, which filled the inside of the wagon with flying powder. "Who in thunderation are you?" he bellowed, grabbing her arm roughly and jerking her out.
Jaime struggled in his grasp. Hacking, wheezing, she felt as if she were choking to death. He was hurting her, the way his fingers were pressing so brutally into her flesh as he pulled her from the wagon. "Let... let me go," she sputtered amid a snowy spray of flour. "You almost killed me with that knife, you idiot."
"If I'd wanted you dead, you would be." Holding her with one hand, he swiped roughly at the mask of flour. "You aren't Indian, that's for sure. Not with this pale face."
"Very funny." She twisted in his grasp, but he held tight. "Let me go, I say."
" You say," he snorted. " I'll say when I'm done with you. Now start talking. I want to know who you are and what you're doing stowing away on my wagon. If you wanted to go along, why didn't you say so?" He studied her as best he could, with the flour caked on her face. Only her wide, angry eyes were visible, ringed with white. "I don't recall seeing you before, but that hair..." He lifted a
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