'That's really too bad. I don't think Miss. Stuart can survive very
long.'
'Come on, Jon, stop it! No matter how powerful this von Heusen is, he
can't just out-and-out murder the woman!
The whole town would be up in arms. He can't own the whole damned town!'
Jon shrugged.
'He owns the sheriff. And we both know that he doesn't have to
out-and-out murder the girl. There are ways.'
'Damn!' Jamie stood up, dusting the dirt off the rump of his breeches
with his hat.
'So what are you going to do?'
'I told you. We're riding back to the fort' -- 'And then?'
'Let's get there, eh?'
Jon stood.
'I just wanted you to know, Jamie, that if you decide to take some of
that time the government owes you, I'll go with you.'
'I'm not taking any time.'
'Yeah. Sure. Whatever you say, Slater.' Jamie paused, grinning.
'Thanks, Red Feather. I appreciate it. But believe me, I'm sure I'm not
the escort Miss. Stuart has in mind.'
Jon pulled his hat low over his eyes, grinning.
'Well, Jamie, me lad, we don't always know just exactly what it is that
we need, now, do we? Good night.' Without waiting for a reply he walked
down the ridge.
Jamie stayed on the ridge a while longer, looking at the camp fires.
He'd stay up with the first group on watch; Monahan would stay up with
the second.
But even when he saw the guard change and the sergeant take his place
silently upon a high ridge, he discovered he couldn't sleep. The cot
didn't bother him--he had slept on much less comfortable beds--nor did
the night sounds, or even the nightmare memories of the day.
She bothered him. Knowing that she slept not far away. Or lay awake as
he did. Perhaps, in private, the tears streamed down her face.
Or perhaps she was silent still, done with the past, determined to think
of the future. She believed what she was saying to him. She believed
that the wagon train had been attacked by white men dressed up like
Indians. She wouldn't let it rest.
He groaned and pulled his pillow over his head. It wasn't exactly as if
she was asking for his help. She'd made it clear she didn't even want to
hear his voice. He owed her nothing, he owed the situation nothing.
Yes, he did.
He owed the people who had died here today, and he owed the Comanche,
who were going to be blamed for this.
And he owed all the people who would die in the bloody wars to follow if
something wasn't proven one way or the other.
Still, he didn't sleep. He lay awake and he wondered about the woman
with the sun-honey hair who lay not a hundred yards away in the
canvas-covered wagon.
Sometime during the night Tess slept, but long before dawn she was wide
