Under a Painted Sky by Stacey Lee Read Free Book Online Page A

came.
    â€œAnnamae,” I whisper sharply.
    She whips her head around. “Lord, not already.” Quickly, she pulls on her coat and buttons it up.
    â€œMaybe they’re Argonauts and not the law,” I say, trying to keep the doubt out of my voice.
    â€œWhat kinda knots?”
    â€œArgonauts. Gold rushers.”
    I feel for my gun as Annamae closes her hand around her cooking knife. I pray that the threat of the gun is enough to deter violence, for I do not know if it is loaded.
    The moving cloud of dust is now a hundred yards out. Surely they saw our fire.
    My breath comes too shallow so I inhale a lungful.
    Annamae pulls her hat over her eyes. “Act tough. Remember, you’s a rattlesnake.”
    If we weren’t so short on time, I might have attempted to explain my complicated past with snakes. But horses and riders are already tumbling into view. Three men—two white and one Mexican—stare at us as their horses bear them forward. The Mexican pulls along a fourth horse, a bay, its rich mahogany coat dressed with black boots.
    Ride on,
I implore them with my mind. But the clopping slows, and the horses squeal as their riders rein them in right before our camp. Dust blows into our faces and threatens to put out our fire.
    The men loop around us, their horses stepping in perfect synchronicity with their heads held high. The movement makes me dizzy so I focus on my lap. My stomach drops as I remember that Indians circle buffalo to confuse them before the slaughter.

7

    AFTER THREE CIRCLES, THEY STOP. ONE OF THE riders, a man less than twenty years old, swings his leg over the saddle and slides off his pinto in a single swift movement. He adjusts the waistband of his trousers and cocks his head at me, smiling with half his mouth.
    Despite my terror, I cannot look away. If eyes left footprints, this man’s face would be worn as a welcome mat. He’s both attractive and inviting with grass-green eyes and a light tan that makes his skin appear golden. Beneath his wide-brimmed hat, sandy-blond locks curl boyishly around his nape. He’s younger than I initially thought, perhaps seventeen or eighteen.
    The three of them study us, and Annamae returns their gaze, chin lifted and bottom lip jutting defiantly. I do my best to mimic her.
    â€œWe havin’ a stare-out or something?” Annamae says at last.
    The green-eyed man stops squinting and his half smile doubles, showing white teeth and a collection of well-placed dimples. “Something sure smells good. You kids expecting company? Old Zach Taylor maybe?”
    He turns toward his friends for appreciation and gets a snicker. “Looks like you have more than your pea pods can hold. We can lend a hand. What say you?”
    If a posse were chasing two dangerous fugitives, would they ask for supper before the apprehending? Annamae relaxes her grip on her knife.
    The Mexican hops off his gray giant of a horse and murmurs something to her in Spanish.
    The last rider sizes me up from atop his horse, a sorrel with a flaxen mane and white socks. I put him at the same age as Green-Eyes. Something about him and his horse ring familiar. I drop my gaze from the man’s dark eyes to the series of dime-sized scars on his arm that trail up to his rolled sleeve.
    Annamae hitches one shoulder a fraction. These men, boys really, except for the Mexican who looks a few years older than his companions, both outnumber and outweigh us. If we refuse, they may take our supper anyway, maybe even our gear, light as it is. In the second it takes me to process this, I hear myself say, “On one condition.”
    My voice sounds too high so I tune it to my lowest pitch and add bluster. “If we let you share our supper, and a good one it is, will you let us double ride your bay to the Little Blue?”
    Green-Eyes drapes an arm over his saddle. “Must be one helluva supper. But you’ll have to ask the vaquero,” he replies, nodding to