Taming of Shaw Maccade

Chapter 1 Angel Crossing, Missouri May 1849 Rebecca Raeburn suppressed a shiver of apprehension as the image of a tall figure on horseback materialized in the ghostly twilight. Silently, the big man leading a string of pack animals rode out of the west toward her. The spectral thud of hooves and the creaking of leather harness were faintly audible, muffled and eerily distorted by the thick clouds of mist rising off the Little Smoke River. Instinctively, Rebecca's fingers closed around the heavy pistol that she always carried in the deep pocket of her canvas skirt. She wasn't a coward, and she wasn't given to flights of womanly fancy. She'd ferried passengersred, white, and brownacross the Little Smoke River for more than a decade. Never once had she come to harm. And oddly enough, she was rarely disturbed by keeping company with even the roughest folkuntil now. She'd transported her last fares of the day, three men bound for the gold fields of California, across the water not more than a quarter hour ago. She would have been halfway home if she hadn't stopped to check her fish trap in the eddy near the ferry mooring. An owl hooted. Gooseflesh raised on Rebecca's arms as she stared hard into the swirling fog. The Indians claimed that an owl calling before full dark meant bad luck. Not that she was superstitious. She wasn't; at least she'd told herself she wasn't. But where was the man she'd glimpsed? For long seconds, perhaps minutes, she waited. She heard nothing but the rush of the rising river, saw not the slightest movement through the trees. Then, abruptly, a stranger materialized only a few yards from the ferry. "Evenin'," she called, masking her nervousness with a bold greeting. "You want the ferry?" Rebecca wasn't certain how many pack animals he was leading, and each one added to the fare. "A dollar for you and your beasts!" His reply came quick and gruff. "Cost is dear." "You're more than welcome to swim," she answered, gathering courage from the familiar dickering over the cost of passage. Lord but he'd startled her. A great stretch of a man, he was, all broad shouldered and shaggy bearded, with crow-black hair as long as an Indian's. The stock of a rifle poked out from a saddle holster, and a razor-sharp tomahawk was strapped to the horn. A mountain man or maybe a buffalo hunter, she speculated. His hunting shirt was fringed and beaded. Some Indian woman had taken weeks, perhaps months, to tan, stitch, and adorn his buckskin clothing. Rebecca tried again to make out his features under the wide-brimmed hat he wore, but it was simply too dark to see clearly. The prickling sensation along the nape of her neck increased until it was impossible to ignore. She swallowed, tasting the acrid bite of danger on her tongue. Outlaw, saint, or devil, this one would bear watching. "Make up your mind!" she urged. "River's five feet and rising. I'll make no more crossings tonight." His answering grunt was noncommittal. Swinging down from the ornate, Spanish saddle, he strode forward, his fringed, knee-high moccasins making no more sound on the log platform than a cat's paws. Rebecca unlatched the bar that served as a gate across the end of the ferry. "Come on," she ordered, then watched closely as the disquieting westerner led his horse and pack animals to the raft. The horselike his masterwas in his prime, boasting aFrench, Judith E. is the author of 'Taming of Shaw Maccade' with ISBN 9780345437600 and ISBN 0345437608.