pulled out his knife and cut off her braids, alerting Emory to look anew at her scar and accept the possibility that this had happened before. When Black Dog started beating on the woman instead of taking the knife to Emory, he took that as a sign that he would not die today. He managed to escape by riding out of Ft. Mays just as the sun was setting, ensuring himself at least an eight hour lead before Black Dog could see where he’d gone.
What he hadn’t counted on was the half-breed’s dogged persistence. It was two weeks and counting since he’d traded beads for some booger, and the son-of-a-bitch was still on his trail.
Emory stood on the edge of a dry land plateau, looking into the setting sun and knowing the tiny trail of dust about a half day’s ride behind him meant death—probably his. He wasn’t in the mood to die for something as inconsequential as screwing a squaw, even though the female hadn’t been his. But his moods were of no consequence to Black Dog, who seemed determined to make Emory pay. Emory was out of options and had to make a decision.
He knew if he kept going southwest, he would ride straight into Apache territory and Black Dog’s people. He couldn’t go back without running into the man, himself, and he was in no mood to face a man out for nothing more serious than using his woman. This left him with only one option.
Cursing the weakness that had gotten him into this trouble, he turned, squinting slightly as he looked toward the jagged skyline of the Rockies and knew the distance was deceiving. It would take days to even reach the foothills. He had no supplies for such a long trek and little hope for surviving, even if he managed to lose Black Dog in the process. Yet it was this way or no way.
With a long sigh and a short curse, he mounted his horse and took the short trail down off the plateau, aiming for the far, blue mountains.
Letty didn’t know exactly when it had happened, but sometime during the past eight days she and Eulis had spent on the trail, she’d lost her fear of everything, including dying. It all started as they were making camp the first night out of Dripping Springs. After taking the team of mules down to the creek bank to drink, Eulis brought them back up to the campsite, hobbled them so they could graze for a bit, and began loading his rifle as Letty dug through the wagon for their cook pot.
“There’s a good number of elms and willows along this creek. I reckon I might be able to shoot us a squirrel or a rabbit for supper.”
“I’ll get wood,” Letty said.
“Watch out for skunks,” Eulis said, and then grinned and dodged when Letty chunked a small rock at his head.
He shouldered his rifle and headed into the woods as Letty began picking up deadwood. She gathered an armful and dumped it near the wagon, took a drink from her canteen, then went back for more. It would be a long night and a fire kept all manner of less than desirable critters at bay. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the hem of her skirt and then paused a moment to survey the area before going back to gather more wood.
The lay of the land was deceiving. The hills were hardly more than intermittent mounds and the valleys between were shallow, giving a viewer the impression that the land was nearly flat. But in truth, there was plenty of room for a man on horseback to be hidden from the human eye until he topped one of those small hills. Even though the knowledge made her nervous, she saw nothing of which to be concerned. With a heartfelt sigh and the thought of hot stew later, she resumed foraging for firewood.
On her third trip back to camp, the largest mule, a big black that Eulis called Rosy, began following Letty back to the wagon, knowing that there was a bag of oats to be had. Letty could feel the heat of the mule’s breath as it hobbled along behind her, and even though she felt no threat, she couldn’t help but walk a little faster.
She got to camp and quickly built the fire, taking time twice to stop and shoo Rosy away from the wagon. About that time, Eulis walked into camp with