«No, not as a whore’s decoration,» Cherokee said, laughing. «As a satin snare for a man. Whip, for instance. There’s a man worth —»
«No.»
«Yes,» Cherokee retorted. «He gets one look at you in that little bit of satin and lace and he’ll forget all about hitting the trail alone. You’ll be married before you can say aye, yes, or maybe —»
«No,» Shannon interrupted.
Cherokee sighed. «Gal, you don’t —»
«No,» Shannon said again, cutting across the old woman’s words. «It’s your turn to listen. My mother and I lived on the kindness of my uncle until I was thirteen and Mama died of lung fever. My uncle died shortly after. Then his wife worked me like a slave.»
Cherokee nodded without surprise.
«I was indentured to a tailor,» Shannon said. «I couldn’t leave the shop, ever. I worked there, ate there, and slept there. When the tailor got drunk, which was about twice a month, I fought him off with the shears I kept beneath my pillow.»
Again Cherokee nodded, unsurprised.
«One day my mother’s uncle came to town,» Shannon continued in a flat voice. «A letter I wrote to him when Mama was dying had finally reached him and he came to fetch me. He got Mama’s silk scarf and gold wedding ring back from my aunt. He put the ring on my finger. After that, I was Mrs. Smith.»
«That’s about how I had it figured,» Cherokee said matter-of-factly. «No gal like you takes up with a man like Silent John unless she’s desperate.»
Shannon’s smile was bittersweet. «Compared to what I came from, Silent John and Echo Basin looked like paradise.»
«I always felt that way, myself. Except I come here older than you, and alone, and I come as a man. My pa was a Mexican and my ma was a rawboned Tennessee whore, strong as a mule and durn near as stupid. I been hired out to do men’s work since I was ten, been paid like a gal, and treated like trash. After Ma died, I just took out and never looked back.»
«Nor did you look for a man to marry,» Shannon pointed out.
Cherokee shrugged. «Like I said, I was full tired of being some man’s slave.»
«Yet you wantmeto go looking for a man.»
«That’s different.»
«Yes,» Shannon said dryly. «It’s my slavery, not yours.»
Cherokee swore and smiled at the same time. «You’re always too quick for me. But then, anybody is, these days. I’m getting old. This blasted ankle ain’t healing worth a handful of spit. I’ll be lucky to hunt for myself this summer, much less for you.»
«Then I’ll hunt for both of us.»
«Gal, you’ve got sand enough for three men, but you’re mighty thin beer when it comes to hunting.»
«I’ll get a lot better before the end of summer.»
For a long moment Cherokee’s dark eyes searched Shannon’s face. Then Cherokee sighed and said no more on the subject of men and marriage and survival. She simply shook her head. There wasn’t enough time between now and winter’s famine for Shannon to learn how to hunt well enough to feed two people.
But Shannon would have to discover that for herself, because she wasn’t listening to the older woman’s advice.
Cherokee could only pray that Shannon wouldn’t learn too late, after the high pass over Whiskey Creek was closed by snow. Then every living thing left in Echo Basin would be locked in until the pass opened, or they died of starvation.
Whichever came first.
4
It was sunset by the time Shannon wearily dragged herself to the top of the steep, rocky rise that overlooked her cabin. From where she stood the cabin was nearly invisible, shielded from the clearing by tall firs and half buried in the mountainside itself.
Rarely had to clearing looked so good to Shannon. The hours since she had left Cherokee’s cabin had been spent hunting food. All Shannon had to show for her work was a tired body and a stomach that was growling loudly enough to draw curious looks from Prettyface.
«Take it easy,» Shannon muttered. «I’m not going to catch you and skin you out for supper.»
Prettyface waved his tail and licked his chops.
«Don’t look at me,» she said tiredly, rubbing the dog’s head. «If you’re hungry, go catch something. And this time, make it big enough for both of us to eat, okay?»
Because Shannon was alone, she made no attempt to hide her hunger and fatigue. Her posture and her tone of voice showed just how worn out she felt.
Other than a few scraps of jerky just after she had gotten up, there had been nothing to put in her stomach all day long. The jerky she had stuffed in her pocket that morning had ended up in Cherokee’s soup, along with whatever tender greens Shannon had found growing near the old woman’s cabin.
It was a better dinner than Shannon would have for herself. She had been hunting ever since she left Cherokee’s cabin. But no matter how hard Shannon had tried, no matter how stealthily she had followed tracks, the deer always fled before she was close enough to risk shooting one of her few precious shells.
Glumly Shannon started picking her way down the rise where the back wall of the cabin was the mountainside itself. Somewhere beneath her feet was the cave where a hot spring breathed warmth and moisture into the darkness, but no sign of that showed on the surface. Off to the left was a pile of jumbled rocks where Silent John had dug out a second, hidden exit to the cabin. Nothing of that showed on the surface, either.
Prettyface trotted ahead of Shannon, sniffing the wind that swirled through the clearing. Suddenly the hound froze. His ears flattened to his skull and his lips lifted in a soundless snarl.
Instantly Shannon put her back to a tree, raised the shotgun, and began searching the area ahead, her weariness forgotten.
Prettyface reacted like that only in the presence of men.
Someone was near her cabin. Perhaps even inside it, hiding, waiting for her to walk in unawares.
Trying to make no noise, Shannon angled down the rocky, wooded rise. When the ground flattened, she began circling the cabin without ever leaving the forest.
Prettyface showed no interest in any of the scents he found along the way. Only the cabin held his attention.
When Shannon finally circled to the far side of the clearing, she found out the reason for the dog’s reaction. A freshly killed, fully dressed-out buck was hanging from the crossed logs at one corner of the cabin.
Silent John had used the same logs to hang game on while he sliced it up to be dried.
«Silent John?» Shannon whispered.
Suddenly Prettyface whipped around and looked back up the steep rise that they had just descended. His ruff stood on end.
Shannon turned and looked, too. There, silhouetted against the crimson and orange of sunset, was a man on horseback. The breadth of his shoulders was unmistakable to Shannon, as was the shape coiled around his right shoulder.
Whip.
He tipped his hat to her, then reined his big gray horse around. Moments later he vanished down the far side of the rise.
Though Shannon waited for a long time, breath held, Whip didn’t reappear.
Finally Prettyface yawned, prodded Shannon with his nose and looked longingly toward the cabin.
«All right, boy. Guess Whip knows better than to come back now that we’re onto him.»
As she spoke the words, Shannon told herself that she wasn’t disappointed that Whip had gone.
