Page 91 of The Widow and the Wanted

“Don’t tempt me,” she shouts over the gallop, the groan of wood and iron on frozen ground. I grit my teeth and eventually the cold drives them back behind the canvas.

Behind me the wagon rattles. The trail dips without much warning, sliding down toward a narrow creek choked with ice. What water shows through runs black and slow between white crystal-like edges.

Something cuts the air beside my face.

A sharp little hiss, fast as a snake strike, then a heavy thunk behind me.

Miss Rakko jerks hard in the traces.

“Whoa,” I snap, hauling back. “Whoa, girl.”

The wagon lurches and rattles to a stop. For half a second there’s nothing but the horse blowing hard and my own heart trying to climb out my throat.

“What was that?” Okee asks as he climbs up, torso leaning out to inspect the wagon where the sound came from.

Then I see it.

An arrow stands quivering in the wagon board.

Lula makes a small, strangled sound under the canvas.

“What in God’s name⁠—”

“Down,” Okee says.

He don’t shout it. That’s worse.

I duck low on the bench, hand going to my pistol before good sense can catch up.

“Don’t,” Okee says.

I freeze with my fingers on the grip.

He’s already out, boots hitting the earth with a thud, glare fixed on the timber ahead.

“Boone,” he says, slow, “take your hand off the iron.”

I look again.

The woods ahead seem empty at first. Bare blackjack, gray trunks. Then one shape becomes a man. Then another. Then three more, stepping out where I’d have sworn nothing but trees stood a blink before.

They carry rifles and bows both. Blankets wrapped close. Faces hard with cold and suspicion.

I lift both hands slow. “Easy,” I call. “We ain’t looking for trouble.”

One of the men says something I don’t catch. Ain’t English. Nor any Mvskoke word I know. His rifle stays pointed at me.

“Osage,” Okee says, without moving his mouth much. “Let me speak.”

The sound of his voice changes. Becomes cautious. He gives them words I don’t understand, and the men look from him to me, then to the wagon, then back to him.

One of them spits into the frost.

“Traitor,” he says in English, I’d guess to make sure we all know where he stands on the subject of Okee traveling with the likes of white folk.

Okee’s jaw tightens, so I shut my mouth, which shows the bind we’re in more than anything else could.

The oldest of them steps forward. His hair hangs in two long braids streaked with gray, and a red blanket is pulled tight over one shoulder. His eyes land on me like the devil himself has crawled up out of the earth and offered him a handshake.