James chimed in before Shea could come to a decision. “The Badlands? I thought it was overrun with beasts. My father told me stories of men who tried to settle that territory. They never last long. The people are either found dead, or the villages abandoned as if its occupants just disappeared one night. I’ve never even seen a map, not even a generic, rudimentary one of that land.” He paused and looked at Shea. “How are we supposed to find our way out if you don’t have a map? Have you ever been there?”
Shea had shifted to watch their pursuers as James took up the explanation, hoping her part in the conversation was finished. The scenery passed by unnoticed as Shea’s focus turned inward at his question.
“Shea?”
She looked up, her gaze sliding past James to the string of sharp hills looming large. “Once.” Sadness whispered through her. She’d barely made it out that one time. Many others had not. Clearing her throat abruptly, she shook off her thoughts. “We shouldn’t have a problem. We’re on the very edge, and we won’t go any further in than we absolutely have to.”
The stranger’s gaze sharpened on her, picking up on her hidden expressions and making her feel exposed. A sharp crack forestalled any questions.
“Damn it. I can’t hit shit like this.” Dane adjusted his grip on his weapon, shifting forward and wedging himself into the corner of the wagon. He took another shot and then cursed roundly as it missed. “I’m just wasting ammo.”
“No, wait. Look,” the stranger Dane had drafted said, pointing as the mob split to either side of the wagon, while still maintaining their distance.
“That’s not better. Now I have two groups to try to hit.”
“Yes, but they’re being careful not to get in range now.” The stranger with the gray eyes turned to Shea. “That’s what you were hoping for, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“Now you just wait until they start edging closer again before firing,” the stranger instructed.
The next few minutes were tense as Dane tried to hold off the mob with a few well-timed rounds.
Witt urged the wagon faster. There were a few hair-raising seconds where the wagon almost tipped as the ride got rougher. All it would take was one good bump, and they would all be sent flying.
The Badlands were just ahead.
“Drive along their edge. We need to find a good entry point,” Shea shouted at Witt.
Steep rolling hills that lurked like giant beasts announced the boundary of the Badlands. Very little vegetation broke up the stark browns and grays.
“There.” Shea pointed at a slim dip between two sheer rock faces. “Get as close as you can before stopping.”
Shea was hoping the path would be narrow enough to prevent their pursuers from following on horseback. She needed the men chasing them to dismount. Otherwise, Shea’s group would just be run down before they could hide.
Witt pulled the horses up sharply, almost sending the wagon crashing into their rears. Dane and the stranger jumped down while Shea and the whiskey-eyed man helped lower Cam to the ground.
The mob surged forward.
Dane dropped to one knee, cradling the weapon’s stock to his shoulder and bracing his elbow against his raised knee. Without the obstacle of the wagon, he picked off two men while Shea and the others raced toward the small gap.
He followed quickly after them.
Chapter Three
The narrow space forced their group to run single file. It wasn’t long before the defined depression between the two hills turned into a narrow gorge. Granite cliffs towered over them on either side, allowing only thin rays of light to filter down. A river must have run through there at one time, the water eating away at the rock over millions of years before eventually drying up.
It was perfect. The villagers wouldn’t be able to ride their horses after them. They’d have to follow on foot.
A hundred feet in, the crevasse cut sharply right, hiding them from sight.
They moved quickly.
Witt and one of the strangers supported Cam as Shea slipped past to race ahead to scout possible routes. A dead end meant death.
Dane brought up the rear, turning every couple of feet to make sure their pursuers weren’t getting too close.
Shea didn’t hold out much hope that the villagers would let superstition keep them from following.
Sure enough, the sound of pursuit began quickly, shouts echoing in the tiny space.
Up ahead, the canyon abruptly widened, and the path became uneven and difficult to traverse, slowing the group.