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canteen. After he’d drunk, she wiped her finger around the
rim and touched a single drop to her lips.
“See there, we ain’t got the water to make it through
another day of this.” Ford gripped his rifle tighter. “You
want to watch that woman roast in this heat ’til some
Apache dashes in to slit her throat? Or worse?”
Before I could speak, one of Pope’s troopers scrambled
back to the wagon. “Top Sergeant?” It was Taylor. “I could
hear somethin’ movin’ out there. Not like moccasins—I
know you don’t want to hear it—but it’s those wolves.”
“Hush what you say, soldier.” Pope’s face twisted in
pain.
Taylor hung his head. “Yes, sergeant. Heard ’em out
there at the top of the arroyo.”
I pulled myself up and peered over the coach’s broken
wheels. A wolf lifted its head and bayed at the rising moon,
its sleek body silhouetted against the cobalt sky. Another
answered its call. Then another.
Some devil heard their cries and the wind gusted, pelt-
ing the back of my head with sand and grit. Stalks of the dry
grass that filled the gulley bowed to the hot breath of air
and the wolves’ howls.
“There,” Ford cried out.
From the knoll where the wolves howled, a fiery ball
arched into the sky. It hung for an instant and then sped
toward the earth behind us.
“Flamin’ arrow,” Ford cursed.
Fear sliced through me. Someone was coming for us.
But who would it be? Apaches with rifles? Or wolves? If
God would hear my prayer, I chose Apaches.
Flickers of fire spread in the weeds and brush along the
gulley floor. In a gust of wind, the tinder-dry grass burst

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