"What are you talking about?" Mr. Reimer complained as he joined Mr. Taggert at the window. He pushed aside the curtain and looked outside. Sarah saw him tense and bend closer.

"Holy Mother of G.o.d. There are Indians out there!"

"Yep. Been following us since yesterday."

Mrs. Powell gasped. Sarah felt fear twist like a knife in her gut.

"What do we do?" Mr. Reimer asked Mr. Taggert.

He shrugged. "Make a decision. Stay or go. Either way, we may have to fight. They may not be here to make troublea"they could have hit us anytime yesterday afternoon, but they didn't."

The stationmaster, a short, stocky man, looked out another window. He wrung his hands as he faced the men. "Don't fight them. Don't make trouble for me. I have a good understanding with them. I trade with thema"fairly. If you start shooting, they will come back and kill me and the missus."

"We could wait them out," Mr. Reimer suggested.

Mr. Taggert looked at him and slowly grinned. "Ain't a man alive who's got more patience than a Sioux warrior."

"We could go out and talk to them," Mr. Reimer suggested.

"You could." Mr. Taggert sat on a worn chair and leaned it back against the wall, away from the window.

"You go," Mr. Reimer said to him. "You seem familiar with their ways."

Mr. Taggert laid his rifle across his lap and folded his arms, giving Mr. Reimer a wry look. "Sure enough, but I'm too fond of my scalp to do something so foolish."

Sarah watched the proceedings with a cold heart. She knew how merciless the Sioux could be. The travelers were no safer here than on the road. Their supplies would give out in a few days, then they would have to venture out anyway. They would be picked off one by one when they went for water, while the warriors stayed out of firing range.

It was possible the band watching them was just curious. The station house was fairly new. They might be reconnoitering for their village, observing the traffic that moved through the station, gauging the threat of leaving the station undisturbed.

"Well, what do we do?" Mr. Reimer asked the room at large.

"You leave," the stationmaster said. "They won't make trouble. There have been no Indian attacks on this road since the sixty-eight treaty. It's safe. I would go if I were you."

"We can't leave without someone to ride shotgun," Mr. Reimer complained. The men were debating among themselves. She had a bad feeling that they would regret whatever they decided. They consulted Mrs. Powell, who was in favor of getting as close to Fort Laramie as they could as fast as possible. Fort Laramie was still a three-day journey from the station house. Even if this band of warriors let them pa.s.s, the next might not, Sarah knew. No one asked her opinion, however, and Mr. Taggert left the decision to the others.

"We'll go," Mr. Reimer announced.

"I got her all loaded," the driver said. "Let's get aboard and hit the trail." He looked at Mr. Taggert. "You'll ride shotgun?"

"Sure."

Sarah hurried in the wake of Mr. Reimer and Mrs. Powell, both of whom climbed into the stage before she did. When it was her turn to board, a strong hand took her arm and helped her up the steps. She looked into Mr. Taggert's cool gaze, feeling it blow over her like an icy wind on a hot, summer day. He turned from her to climb up to the driver's bench, his rifle in hand. The coach lurched forward.

Sarah glanced at her fellow occupants. Fear tightened their features. She shoved the leather curtain open, straining to see any signs of the Indians. The stage was heading into the wind, so no dust clouds announced their followers, if there were any. She couldn't see much out of the opposite window. There was nothing for it but to wait. They would ultimately make it to Fort Laramie, or they wouldn't. She could do nothing to affect the outcome.

Five minutes eased into a quarter of an hour. When a half hour had pa.s.sed, Sarah cautiously began to be hopeful they weren't being followed. The driver slowed the coach, keeping the horses to a comfortable trot. A few more hours pa.s.sed, still with no sign of the warriors. Perhaps they had been more interested in the station house after all.

"Look! They're coming!" Mr. Reimer shouted. He leaned out the central window and began firing at their pursuers. Mrs. Powell clutched the pa.s.senger strap for support as the coach lurched into a fast speed. Sarah closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer. Even above the road noise in the cabin, she could hear the thunderous approach of several riders. And then the scream of their battle crya"a sound that still tortured her dreams.

The warriors advanced until they were riding parallel with the coach, their ponies leaping over sagebrush with the grace of antelopes. They waved their guns, bows and arrows, keeping their shields toward the coach. Mrs. Powell began crying and chanting a string of unintelligible words. The driver lashed his team to a full gallop. The coach lurched wildly as it careened down the rutted dirt road. Sarah's hand slipped to the holster on her hip. Mr. Reimer reloaded and continued firing. Sarah couldn't see if he'd hit his mark, but the band of warriors fell back.

The driver rode the team hard for another few minutes, then let them slow up. Sarah looked out the window, but could see no sign of the Indians. They drove for another hour. Sarah was sure each breath was her last. The Indians were playing with them. Advancing and retreating. Tormenting their prey.

"If they come up again, Mrs. Powell, you get yourself down on the floor and keep your head low," Mr. Reimer ordered solicitously.

"What do they want? Why are they doing this?" the matron asked. "They are going to kill us all. They will kill us and take our scalps. Oh, merciful heaven, we are dead."

Sarah felt a cold sweat dampen her skin. Fear moved like ice through her veins. She knew death was a far more merciful outcome than surviving an attack. Bile rose in her throat as she remembered warriors pushing her to the ground while her husband fought with other warriors. They ravaged her there, in her front yard, while her husband watched. Then a warrior's tomahawk made short work of his resistance. They'd looted her house, taking whatever they could carry easily. She'd been tossed over the back of one of the ponies, tied so she couldn't fight or run. They'd set out at a full gallop, but they didn't outride the smell of her burning home. It couldn't happen again. Not again.

The temporary calm in the cab was broken by a war yell the likes of which only a Sioux could issue. A warrior came even with Sarah's window and rode beside the stage for the length of a heartbeat. He looked into the stage, locked eyes with Sarah. His face was painted a fearsome black and red. The hawk feathers tied in his hair jumped and flipped in the wind. The driver whipped the horses into a run.

The warrior slipped away, joining the band that was riding parallel to the stage, out of the range of gunshot. Then once again, they fell back, disappearing in the gently rolling prairie. Sarah's insides writhed like snakes awakening from a winter sleep.

"It's her." Mr. Reimer's shrill voice broke into the stunned silence in the cab. He waved his gun at her. "They want her back."

Sarah looked at their pale faces, their eyes white-rimmed with fear. "No," she whispered.

"We should put her out," he shouted. "They'll leave us alone then."

"No!" Sarah said again, louder.

Mr. Reimer looked at Mrs. Powell. "Would you give your life for hers? If she stays, we'll all be killed. If we put her out, we'll live."

"No. No. Please," Sarah begged. "Don't do this. Who can know what they want? I didn't recognize the warrior who was just next to us. I don't know them. They don't know me. Please, don't do this."

Mr. Reimer and Mrs. Powell looked at each other. The matron's expression calmed as her back stiffened. The hand that clutched a kerchief to her face lowered to her lap. "I'm a widow in possession of a significant fortune, Mr. Reimer. I would pay you a substantial reward for ensuring my safe arrival in Cheyenne."

Mr. Reimer studied Mrs. Powell. He cautiously looked out his window. Seeing the way was clear, he poked his head out farther, checking for the dust trail of the Sioux. He shouted up to the men riding on the driver's seat. "Stop the coach! Stop it now!"

"What is it? Anyone hit?" Mr. Taggert shouted back.

"No. Stop the coach!"

"Ain't gonna happen," Mr. Taggert scoffed.

Mr. Reimer pointed his pistol at the shotgun rider. "I said stop the coach."

Sarah was breathing in short gasps, her stomach in her teeth. Her only hope was that Mr. Taggert could convince the pa.s.sengers not to do this terrible thing.

The coach pulled up, shifting as Mr. Taggert jumped to the ground. He yanked the door open and dragged Mr. Reimer outside. "You better have a G.o.dd.a.m.ned good reason for stopping."

Mr. Reimer looked at her. "Get out."

"She stays put."

"We want her out. The Indians are after her, not us. We give her to them, they'll leave us alone. We live. You live. The driver lives. If she stays, we all die."

"And if we leave her here, she'll die." He shook his head. A dust cloud was rising again on the horizon. "Get in the coach. We're not leaving anyone behind."

"I'm afraid you are, Mr. Taggert," Mr. Reimer said, his silver-handled Colt pointed at him. The two men glared at each other for precious seconds. Mrs. Powell whimpered. Mr. Taggert shouted up to the driver to toss down his gear and Mrs. Hawkins's satchel and bedroll. Fast as anything, several parcels fell from the top of the coach. Mr. Reimer shrugged free and scrambled into the cab. He turned the gun on Sarah. "Get out."

"No. Please. I beg you, don't do this. Please. You don't know what they will do. I do."

"Get out," Mr. Reimer snarled. He c.o.c.ked his gun, then waved it at her.

A sob caught Sarah's breath as Mr. Taggert pulled her from the wagon. He slammed the coach door shut and shouted up to the driver. The coach lurched forward.

Sarah glanced around, searching for a boulder, a dip in the ground, something to give them a little bit of cover. There was nothing. They were a mile from the tree line that bordered a narrow creek. There was nowhere to hide on the high, flat prairie.

She wanted to vomit. She wanted to run. She couldn't breathe. Her hands were like ice. She doubted her ability to even shoot herself, now that the moment was at hand.

Mr. Taggert gripped her arms and lifted her to her toes as he bent toward her. "Mrs. Hawkins, look at me." His gray eyes were intense, like storm clouds when lightning flashes through them. "This looks bad, but I've been in worse situations and lived to tell. Stand with your back to mine. Have your gun ready, but by G.o.d, don't shoot until I tell you."

"I won't be taken again. I won't go alive into that h.e.l.l."

He didn't respond. He pulled her revolver and checked the chamber, rotated it once, then closed it and put it in her shaking hands. "We don't know it's gonna come to that. If there's one thing an Indian hates, it's unexpected behavior. Our standing here is sure as h.e.l.l unexpected. Let's just see where this goes."

She pressed her back to the man who had been her salvation since he'd joined the small group of travelers. She could feel the heated leather of his vest against her shoulders. He was tall. Brave beyond reason.

And about to die because of her.

"Easy, Mrs. Hawkins. Easy. Hold steady."

The dust cloud thickened. The Sioux were returning. Their battle screams ripped through her nerves. She pushed harder against his back, needing the contact to keep her legs from buckling.

Mr. Taggert had his rifle ready, but not up in a firing position. The fierce warriors rode in a wide circle about them, waving their weapons. Ten of them, every one of them bent on death and violence. Sarah knew the joy they took in terrorizing their enemies. It fed their souls more completely than any physical sustenance.

The circle of riders tightened, a lariat of horses and warriors, closing in around them in a blur of dirt. Black-and-white ponies. Bodies painted with war colors, red, black, yellow. Feathers and shields. Sarah tried to focus on one, then another, but they moved too fast, swirling and tightening.

Suddenly, the riders stopped. They formed a half circle around the two of them, facing Mr. Taggert. Every breath Sarah drew was filled with the pale dirt of the arid prairie, clogging her nose and throat, making her eyes water, filling her lungs with grit.

Silence. The quiet was more alarming than the battle screams had been.

Chapter 4.

Sarah twisted around to watch what was happening, standing shoulder to ribs with Mr. Taggert. No one moved. No one spoke. A horse flinched now and then when bitten by a fly. Only the dust dared swirl on the remnants of the air currents kicked up by the crazy, circling ride of the warriors.

One of the warriors moved his horse forward, stopping several yards in front of Mr. Taggert. "You trespa.s.s on our hunting grounds."

Sarah had thought she had forgotten the Sioux language she'd learned while a captive, but the first words from the warrior's mouth brought it all slamming back to her. She started to translate for Mr. Taggert, but he cut her off, answering the warrior himself.

"You aren't hunting today. You haven't been hunting for several days," he said in Sioux. "You've been following us."

Mr. Taggert, she'd learned from bits of conversation over the last few days, had a series of trading posts from the Dakotas west through Wyoming and south to Texas. She wasn't surprised he could understand Sioux, but he spoke it like a native.

Sarah studied the warrior as she tensed for action. Her hands settled and resettled around the b.u.t.t of her pistol. He showed no reaction to Mr. Taggert's ability to speak his language, which in itself was proof he was shocked. She wondered if Mr. Taggert knew how sneaky warriors like these could be. If his trading posts were in garrisoned forts, he might have no idea of the Sioux's natural perfidy, especially when dealing with whites.

"I am Cloud Walker." He nodded his chin toward Sarah. "You have Yellow Moon, a woman of our people. I come to claim her. She is wife to one of our chiefs. I will return her to him."

How did he know her? She looked at Cloud Walker more closely, but could not remember having met him.

"She belongs to me."

The warrior regarded Mr. Taggert in a steely gaze. "How is it you speak our tongue?"

"I am Logan Taggert, known as Shadow Wolf among your people." Mr. Taggert held his rifle across his left forearm and gestured with his right hand, conveying his message as much in words as sign language. "I have trading posts at Bad River and the Big Muddy and other rivers. I trade fairly with your people and have joined many a hunt with Gray Bear. I have smoked many a pipe with Standing Antelope. I am a friend to your people."

"Then you will know you cannot take a man's wife without paying for her."

"I didn't take her. She left the Sioux."

"That was not her choice to make. Her husband, Swift Elk, will be glad we found her."

Standing with her shoulder against Mr. Taggert's side, Sarah felt the tension that washed through him at the mention of Swift Elk.

"What is done, is done. I claim her. I am willing to meet a bride price equal to her value," he offered in a calm voice.

"She belongs to our people."

Mr. Taggert made a dismissive gesture. "She is a white woman. She can't be owned by your people if it isn't her choice."

The warrior leveled a hard stare at Mr. Taggert. "Why are you alone here with the woman and not in the black coach with the others?"

"They feared you. They sent us to speak to you."

The warrior studied Mr. Taggert a long moment, then shouted an order to the other warriors. As one, they wheeled their horses and rode after the coach. War cries filled the air.

Silence slowly settled around them. Sarah's knees gave out. She crumpled to the hard ground. Her hands shook as she unc.o.c.ked her gun and holstered it. "Will they be back?"

"Depends." Mr. Taggert shrugged.

"On what?"

"On how you left them." He watched the fading dust cloud. "Did you escape, or were you ransomed?"

"I ran away."

"Then they'll be back. You still belong to your husband."

"I never consented to marry Swift Elk. That was no marriage."

"Your beliefs have no bearing on the facts, Mrs. Hawkins. It's a terrible disgrace for a wife to run away. You will be returned to the tribe and punished for leaving."