Staying low I looked to the horizon and saw an Apache warrior. The sun sat just over his head making it impossible to see him clearly. Black hair draped his bare shoulders. Long legs straddled a piebald. The rider I glimpsed earlier rode a buckskin. Did that mean there were three of them? A rifle sat across the warrior’s arm ready to be raised and fired. I waited for him to advance, but he kept his distance, probably waiting to see who else might be inside the stagecoach with a firearm. Little did he know, Coulter’s pistol had no bullets and Mr. Rutherford’s gun was only effective at close range. My only chance at survival was to keep the Derringer concealed until the last possible moment. Even then, I could only kill one. I also knew getting into the stage without help was impossible and it would be like putting myself back into a cage. My best bet was to get the hell out of there. But how? And go where? I needed to deal with the how first and worry about the where later. I scooted for the undercarriage never taking my eyes off the warrior. He still hadn’t moved. And where were the other two? Things had gone quiet on the other side of the stagecoach.

Before I made a run for it the handcuffs had to come off. Running in a long skirt would increase the odds of getting caught. I wouldn’t be able to defend myself all trussed up. Keeping the wagon wheel between me and the warrior, as if that would stop a bullet, I poked my fingers into my boot. Mr. Rutherford’s key wasn’t there. Tearing at the laces, I ripped off the boot, and dumped out the Derringer and gold coin.

“Where in blazes-?” I bit my lip.

The key had snagged on my stocking. I stole a quick glance for the horse and rider.

“Shit!”

The horse was there but the warrior had disappeared. I scanned for movement around the rocks and brush. The Apache were notorious for their ability to hide in plain sight. Looking for him was a waste of time. I needed to focus on the handcuffs. My hands shook as I fumbled with the key, dropping it once, then twice. The first lock gave. I worked the second. Before it came loose, something moved on the other side of the stagecoach. Was it him or the other two? A pair of beaded boots with up turned toes stood three feet away. I held my breath not daring to move. At the same time, I found myself strangely attracted to the beautiful beadwork that lined the boots. It never occurred to me that blood-lusting savages were capable of something so . . . but wait. The warrior had on military style riding boots. Or had I just assumed that? The stagecoach rocked. A carpetbag fell to the ground, then another.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

Deep breathes weren’t enough to keep my hands from shaking. The keyhole blurred as my eyes watered. The thought of surrendering myself turned to terror when powerful hands gripped my ankles and dragged me out. My scalp exploded when hair caught on a nail along the edge of the stage and ripped free. Too late to grab for the Derringer that still lay in the dirt. Skirt and petticoats slipped up around my hips as I clawed at the ground splitting fingernails. I caught ahold of a wheel spoke, but my sweaty hand could not hang on. Kicking might cause the buck knife to fall from my boot.

I decided on a different tack and let myself go limp. Once clear of the stagecoach, my captor let my legs drop. I waited. Scuffling sounds came from the other side. A pair of moccasin boots kicked at trunks and crates that littered the ground. I turned my head away from the still oozing Sheriff Coulter and lay completely still. What was he waiting for? Taking a deep breath, I slowly rolled over on my back and propped myself on my elbows. The warrior stood taller than most of the local Indians that wandered in and out of Safford. The devil’s face could not have been as cold and fierce as the one that stared down on me. Black paint covered the top half of his face with a red lightning bolt that started between his eyes and down one cheek. His hair hung long around his shoulders and was held in place by a red bandana. His skin blended with the color of the landscape except for a white starburst scar on his bare chest. A gunshot wound close enough to his heart that it should have killed him. He wore rough-woven britches with a breechcloth. I had been right about the boots. They made me think he may have been an army scout. If so, he might speak English.