The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,62

by train. Following the same route that Randall Howe had taken. By a stroke of bad luck, they missed the stop where he’d disembarked and lost two extra days retracing their steps before picking up his trail again. It wasn’t until they found a stagecoach driver who remembered a preacher getting on board that their luck took a turn. After that, it had been a matter of following the stage lines south.

Beau James and the Doone sisters camped in a hollow near a deep, narrow creek, seeking shelter from the ceaseless blast of wind through which they’d been riding. It had been blowing for days. Their eyes were red and irritated, their skin chapped from the air-driven dust, and they were edgy, both with the situation and with each other. Although the wind wasn’t as strong down where they’d camped, it seemed to be shifting and stirring, like batter in a bowl.

Beau had tethered the horses in trees, giving them some shelter as well, and now the animals stood with their heads down and their tails to the wind—like their masters, enduring.

The land looked the same as it had the last three nights of camp, but Beau James wasn’t a man to take things for granted. As soon as he’d seen to his chores, he began scouting the area on foot, making sure there would be no surprises after sundown.

Mehitable was across the creek near their small campfire, skinning a squirrel Beau had shot for their supper. Although she was standing upwind and kept her back to the fire, the occasional streak of smoke still drifted in her eyes.

She looked up as Charity came into the clearing, carrying an armload of wood and frowned, which made her natural squint even more pronounced. Charity was walking like a woman on her way to be hanged. Mehitable looked at the spindly bits of wood her sister had gathered and shook her head. Bill Doone should not have sent his youngest daughter to finishing school. He should have taught her to rope instead.

Charity dropped the wood near the fire.

“That ain’t gonna be enough wood,” Mehitable muttered.

Charity looked stricken. Silently, she turned and went back for more.

Mehitable sighed. She shouldn’t have been so short. Charity had been sheltered in a way Mehitable had not ever since the day she’d been born. And then Hetty amended her own thoughts. If Charity was old enough to get herself into trouble with a man, she was old enough to help set up camp.

A few minutes later, she gave the last bit of skin on the squirrel a quick yank. It came away from the meat like the peeling off a hot, new potato. Mehitable shrugged. The squirrel was small. But it would make a good stew. She reached for her knife and began hacking it up, dropping the chunks, one by one, into the pot of boiling water.

Beau glanced toward their camp. It was a good thing they weren’t in Indian country. Thanks to this everlasting wind, the smoke from their fire would be noticeable for miles. He could even smell it from here. Then he frowned. That didn’t make sense. He was standing upwind.

Before he had time to consider the thought, something snapped behind him. He spun toward the trees. Instinctively, his hand went to his holster. Just the feel of the pistol against his palm was reassuring, but when he looked back at the camp, Charity was nowhere in sight.

Before he could worry about the fact, a deer suddenly burst out of a thicket, coming toward him at a full run. The animal’s eyes were dark and wild, its body flecked with sweat. He stared as it leaped the creek and disappeared into the trees near where their horses were tied.

Beau stared in disbelief. A few moments later a pair of raccoons came scurrying out of the underbrush and waded into the creek as if he wasn’t even there.

“What the hell?”

Then he took a defensive step back as the woods were suddenly alive with animals.

All running. And in the same direction.

The hair crawled on the back of his neck. Before he lifted his head, he knew. It wasn’t their campfire he’d been smelling after all.

“No, oh no,” he groaned, and started running, yelling Mehitable’s name.

She looked up as Beau came running through the creek.

“Where’s Charity!” he screamed.

“I sent her back to get more wood.”

“Christ!” Beau muttered. “Which way did she go?”

“There,” Mehitable pointed. “What’s wrong?”

Beau pointed toward the other side of the creek. It was