“And shoot anyone who tries to enter camp.”

“What if it’s you comin’ back? Or Phoebe?”

“We’ll shout our names before comin’ in.”

I took off runnin’ down the river bank, thankful I’d kept my boots on when ruttin’ with Gentry. It was dark enough to force me to watch my feet, but barely light enough to see ’em.

After two minutes I stopped to listen.

Everything was quiet.

I felt terrible.

I’d teased Phoebe into an argument and allowed her to stomp away on her own, somethin’ I’d a’ never done had we made camp in a more dangerous place. But what was I thinkin’? There are no safe places. Just ’cause we’d never had trouble in this neck of the woods don’t mean there couldn’t be trouble.

I took a few steps while fightin’ the urge to shout her name. If a critter had her, and she was alive, she’d still be screamin’. If travelers or Indians had her, they’d a’ raped or killed or run off with her, and if she was conscious, she’d be screamin’. But she weren’t screamin’, which meant she was likely dead or unconscious

I ran a couple more minutes, ’til I figured to be very close to where Phoebe had been when she screamed. I stopped again to listen, but heard nothin’. I realized now how trouble had found us. The whores had been hollerin’ when playin’ in the river, and sound carries a long way over open water. Someone or some type of critter could a’ heard ’em up to two miles away. Hell, Shrug could a’ heard ’em from three. Which meant Shrug probably heard Phoebe’s scream too, from wherever he’d been. Unless he thought it was part of the whores playin’.

In the back of my mind I realized I’d relied on Shrug far too much, assumin’ he’s always near, watchin’ over us. Sometimes he’s way out in front of us, or makin’ a wide circle around us, dependin’ on where he thinks the danger is. Earlier today, he hadn’t known about the Indians, and I’d expected him to pop up next to me on the river bank when I’d been fishin’. It would a’ been just like Shrug to be standin’ there with a string of perch, all bigger than mine, pointin’ and grinnin’ at my string. Shrug would’ve expected to eat fish tonight, and might’ve even come into camp to get some. But he hadn’t so much as whistled or laid a stone since shortly after the Indian attack.

It suddenly crossed my mind that Shrug could a’ been injured by the Indians before they attacked me. They were poor with rifles, but deadly with bows and arrows. When the shootin’ started, Shrug probably heard it and worked his way back to the mountain. He may have killed the Indians I didn’t shoot.

I wondered if he’d been hit by an arrow. I didn’t see any blood by the stones he’d placed after the battle, which was a good sign.