getting somewhere,” Brad murmured grimly.
A puff of wind blew shimmering strands of brown-gold hair across Sheila’s face. She reached up to tuck them behind her ear, unaware that the action stretched the silken material of her blouse across her breasts. Her gaze was compelled to return again to the dark rider.
“Will you ride your horse to where the mechanic is and bring him back?” Brad pantomimed the question. “I’ll pay you for your trouble. Pay you—have you got that? Pesos. Many pesos. Don’t tell me you don’t know what pesos are?” he added cynically.
“Pesos?
Si, si.”
The man assured him of his understanding and waited.
“How much do you want?” Brad asked, reaching into his trousers pocket. “Fifty pesos?”
As he pulled out the wad of bills Sheila had given him, she went cold all over. She wanted to scream at.
Brad for his stupidity in showing the man all that money, but nothing could get past the lump of fear in her throat The Mexican laughed with undisguised delight, revealing chipped, yellowed teeth, and said something to the others.
She couldn’t believe that Brad didn’t feel the subtle change in the atmosphere—that charged feeling in the air that precedes a violent storm. Sheila faced the riders, her eyes darting to the faint smiles appearing at their compatriot’s announcement Only the one compelling rider seemed untouched by the news. Every muscle in her body was tensed for flight.
“Fifty pesos isn’t enough, huh?” Brad muttered beneath his breath, “Greedy bastard.” And he began peeling off more bills. “How about a hundred pesos? Would that persuade you?”
Sheila wanted to laugh hysterically at Brad. His singleminded desire to show how wealthy he was made him blind to the situation, and she couldn’t force the words through her mouth to warn him. The whole scene was building toward a climax, and she was powerless to stop it.
The Mexican’s left hand emerged from the folds of his poncho and reached toward the money. “I’ve found your price, have I?” Brad declared and started to separate some of the bills from the rest.
The man didn’t wait to be given the money. Instead, his hand closed over the whole amount Too late, Brad realized the danger that Sheila had sensed from the beginning. Swearing, Brad fumbled inside his jacket for the revolver tucked into his waistband.
As the butt of the gun emerged in his hand, Sheila’s horrified eyes saw the muzzle of the Mexican’s gun protruding from the right side of his poncho. A deafening explosion followed. When her eyes focused again, Brad was crumbling to the ground, the snub-nosed revolver slipping from his fingers.
You stupid fool,
Sheila thought.
She wanted to run to him, but the Mexican wasalready kneeling beside him, prying the wad of money from the tightly clenched fingers.
Sheila took a faltering step toward Brad, staring at the small red hole in his chest. There was no gory, spurting of blood such as she had seen depicted in movies—just a small, deadly hole and a slow-spreading scarlet stain to betray the mortal wound.
The crack of saddle leather and horses’ hooves penetrated the dazed mist of her mind. The scent of warm horseflesh was mixing with the acrid smell of gunsmoke. As her gaze widened to encompass the scene beyond Brad’s motionless body, Sheila saw that the band of riders had moved in. Two had dismounted to join the man going through Brad’s pockets.
Her gaze swept over the menacing group. Her heart stopped beating for a second, then pounded madly in fear. They were all staring at her. Sheila flattened herself against the car door.
Two more riders dismounted and began walking toward her. There was nowhere to run. They had killed Brad and she knew she could expect no mercy, certainly none before they had killed her.
Survive! The word screamed through her veins. Survive! The panicked beat of her heart slowed instantly and the stranglehold of fear was removed from her throat. She
A puff of wind blew shimmering strands of brown-gold hair across Sheila’s face. She reached up to tuck them behind her ear, unaware that the action stretched the silken material of her blouse across her breasts. Her gaze was compelled to return again to the dark rider.
“Will you ride your horse to where the mechanic is and bring him back?” Brad pantomimed the question. “I’ll pay you for your trouble. Pay you—have you got that? Pesos. Many pesos. Don’t tell me you don’t know what pesos are?” he added cynically.
“Pesos?
Si, si.”
The man assured him of his understanding and waited.
“How much do you want?” Brad asked, reaching into his trousers pocket. “Fifty pesos?”
As he pulled out the wad of bills Sheila had given him, she went cold all over. She wanted to scream at.
Brad for his stupidity in showing the man all that money, but nothing could get past the lump of fear in her throat The Mexican laughed with undisguised delight, revealing chipped, yellowed teeth, and said something to the others.
She couldn’t believe that Brad didn’t feel the subtle change in the atmosphere—that charged feeling in the air that precedes a violent storm. Sheila faced the riders, her eyes darting to the faint smiles appearing at their compatriot’s announcement Only the one compelling rider seemed untouched by the news. Every muscle in her body was tensed for flight.
“Fifty pesos isn’t enough, huh?” Brad muttered beneath his breath, “Greedy bastard.” And he began peeling off more bills. “How about a hundred pesos? Would that persuade you?”
Sheila wanted to laugh hysterically at Brad. His singleminded desire to show how wealthy he was made him blind to the situation, and she couldn’t force the words through her mouth to warn him. The whole scene was building toward a climax, and she was powerless to stop it.
The Mexican’s left hand emerged from the folds of his poncho and reached toward the money. “I’ve found your price, have I?” Brad declared and started to separate some of the bills from the rest.
The man didn’t wait to be given the money. Instead, his hand closed over the whole amount Too late, Brad realized the danger that Sheila had sensed from the beginning. Swearing, Brad fumbled inside his jacket for the revolver tucked into his waistband.
As the butt of the gun emerged in his hand, Sheila’s horrified eyes saw the muzzle of the Mexican’s gun protruding from the right side of his poncho. A deafening explosion followed. When her eyes focused again, Brad was crumbling to the ground, the snub-nosed revolver slipping from his fingers.
You stupid fool,
Sheila thought.
She wanted to run to him, but the Mexican wasalready kneeling beside him, prying the wad of money from the tightly clenched fingers.
Sheila took a faltering step toward Brad, staring at the small red hole in his chest. There was no gory, spurting of blood such as she had seen depicted in movies—just a small, deadly hole and a slow-spreading scarlet stain to betray the mortal wound.
The crack of saddle leather and horses’ hooves penetrated the dazed mist of her mind. The scent of warm horseflesh was mixing with the acrid smell of gunsmoke. As her gaze widened to encompass the scene beyond Brad’s motionless body, Sheila saw that the band of riders had moved in. Two had dismounted to join the man going through Brad’s pockets.
Her gaze swept over the menacing group. Her heart stopped beating for a second, then pounded madly in fear. They were all staring at her. Sheila flattened herself against the car door.
Two more riders dismounted and began walking toward her. There was nowhere to run. They had killed Brad and she knew she could expect no mercy, certainly none before they had killed her.
Survive! The word screamed through her veins. Survive! The panicked beat of her heart slowed instantly and the stranglehold of fear was removed from her throat. She
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