Silver in the Blood by George G. Gilman

drops that forced wide detours. When the rain came, stinging exposed flesh and taking only moments to soak through clothing to plaster it against the body, it formed myriad small rivulets that sucked the wheels of the wagon eagerly into their muddy beds whenever they stopped turning for an instant. Edge rode with the hood of his parka held around his face so that there was just a small gap for his narrowed eyes to peer ahead. Anatali sat upright on the box seat, unmindful of the viciousness of the storm, his expressionless face tilted slightly upwards as if taunting the elements to do their worst to him. When the sheets of lightning began to burst from the leaden heavens, making grotesque, instantaneous shapes out of every feature of the terrain, bringing with it the enraged crash of thunder, the woman bit at her lips hard enough to raise blood, but refused the Zulu's pleas for her to get inside the wagon. For just as Anatali was pitting himself against the weather, she felt she had to prove herself strong in the eyes of Edge's resentment. But when, after crossing the state line into California, Edge called a halt to make camp, Martha immediately grasped the opportunity to scramble into the wagon and search for the ingredients for a meal. They were high in the mountains now and, in the instant of each lightning flash, could see the perfect whiteness of year-round snow capping the surrounding peaks.
    Edge had halted the wagon in the lee of a cliff that rose sheer at the foot of a peak and offered a number of niches in which a fire could be built. He climbed up into the wagon and began to pries open the crates.  The woman watched him suspiciously and he was aware of the terror that gripped her each time the lightning illuminated the canvas top of the wagon. But he ignored her as if she were an inanimate object.
    "What do you think you are doing, Mr. Edge?" she demanded at length, her knuckles white as she held two cans of meat in a terrified grip.
    "Surviving," he answered, cracking the lengths of wood across his knee to make kindling. "It's dry and it'll burn."
    Martha looked to AnataIi for help, but the Zulu avoided her plea and started to rip apart a second crate. Then, when Edge had torn the cardboard carton containing the supplies into shreds, Anatali took off his suit jacket and protected the niche from the teeming rain while Edge nursed the flames towards a firm grip on the wood. Then he climbed up into the driver's seat and with Edge as his guide, backed the wagon up so that its rear end was close enough to the fire to benefit the interior with warmth. Edge jerked down the tailboard and stared levelly at Martha.
    "Out," he ordered.
    "I beg your pardon?" her anger subjugated her fear.
    "We did the man's work," Edge answered. "That makes it your turn."
    The woman's eyes roved, searching for Anatali, but he was busy unhitching his horse from the wagon and then he went quickly to the front to take the team out of the shafts. It was obvious he wanted no part of this argument.
    "I am not used to being spoken to in that tone," she retorted, her voice rising. "Nor to doing menial tasks. I prepared the meal earlier because the conditions were pleasant and I was anxious to maintain harmony for the journey. Since you are apparently set upon being as unpleasant as possible I do not propose to undertake any more favors."
    She sat down abruptly and adopted a formal pose of determination, trying to look immovable. Rain glued the fabric of her dress to her ample curves and several strands of hair had been worked loose from the bun and were plastered across her face. She looked uncomfortable and slightly ridiculous.
    Edge shrugged and touched the parka hood in a gesture of mock politeness. "Good-bye, Miss Wilder," he said and moved away.
    The woman shot to her feet and scrambled over the crates to the rear of the wagon, fear etching across her features. "Where are you going to?" she wailed after him.
    He halted and turned to look at