Short Cut to Santa Fe by Medora Sale Page B

the woods. She moved as quickly as she could, darting between trees, trying not to fall, until at last she realized that no one was chasing her. The silence of the night ruled once more, and she climbed back up to the top of the hill, slightly to the right, she thought, of the path she had been on with Gary and Wayne.
    Once out from between the trees, she saw that the sky was turning from black, studded with stars, to silver, brilliantly lit by one or two. The mesa was empty, except for a couple of beer or soft-drink cans where the plane had waited. She perched on the rim of the enclosing mountain, shielding herself behind some brush, and searched for signs of life. There was nothing. She shuddered and moved along the top, staying away from the steep slope that led to the mesa in case she slipped and fell and broke something. It seemed to take her forever before she reached the entrance to their little path. With a sob she could not suppress, she began to run, stumbling, back toward the road.
    â€œWhat time is it?” Harriet whispered the words directly into John’s ear.
    He raised his watch and flicked on the tiny light buried inside. “It’s three forty-five,” he said. He spoke softly, but well within the range of normal speaking tones.
    Harriet jumped, startled. His voice seemed to echo across the valley in the silence of the night. “How long have we been sitting here in the dark?” she went on, still whispering into his ear.
    â€œAbout an hour.” John had pitched his voice low enough not to disturb other people, but not at a level of a man who expects to be shot if someone hears him talking. “I imagine Gary and Wayne are long gone.”
    â€œWhat makes you think that?”
    â€œThere’s been a certain amount of movement back and forth, along the aisle,” he said. “Maybe you didn’t notice it from where you are, but I could feel people creeping by. I wasn’t counting, but it’s entirely possible that we’re the only people left on the bus. Except for the injured woman and the kids. Did you say you had another flashlight?”
    â€œSure,” said Harriet. “In my knapsack. I also have more batteries, as far as that goes.”
    â€œI wonder where they put our flashlight?”
    â€œOn the seat,” said Harriet. “Gary’s seat.”
    â€œIt should have enough juice in it to take me back to the van. Stay here.”
    â€œYou’ll need the keys.” There was a faint rattle as she extracted them from her pocket. “Here. Don’t get shot.”
    And indeed nothing impeded Sanders’s progress down the steps of the crippled bus. The batteries had regained a faint measure of their strength in the meantime, and the glow of the flashlight was enough to guide him to the van. It still sat there peacefully, locked and unmolested. The knapsack was open, as he had left it, and a second flashlight was lying close to where the first had been. Fresh batteries were neatly disposed in one of the outer pockets. When he replaced the used ones, he flicked on the flashlight and it lit up the night. Wonderful, organized Harriet, he thought, in a sudden surge of affection for her. She really always did things properly. He stretched luxuriously and strode back to the bus.
    â€œGone without a trace,” he whispered to Harriet, “and the van is fine.” Then stepping as lightly as he could, he made his way back to see if he could help the injured woman. There were indeed empty seats. Across from them, the cool Teresa had decamped into the darkness. And so had Kevin Donovan. The big football player was gone. Rick Kelleher was still there, wide awake, supporting his sleeping wife. Sanders leaned over. “They’ve gone,” he whispered. “Are you all right?”
    â€œWe’re fine,” said Kelleher.
    The children were sleeping, and in the back, Jennifer Nicholls was sitting on the floor, leaning her