Chapter 9

I remained in hiding as the riders grew small in the distance. If they continued in their present direction, they would pass the Mead. Could they be headed there? If so that boded ill.

As the distant riders passed from view, my sense of unease increased. I unhitched the draft animal from the buckboard and hobbled her near a small rill in a hollow somewhat distant from the wagon. She would have both grass and water until my return.

Without a thought for abandoning my worldly belongings, I headed east back down the wagon track, chugging White Patch, named for the bit of white circling his left eye, into an easy lope the pinto could maintain for hours, despite the summer sun. A scraggly line of trees on the north bank of the Yanube provided some relief from the heat.