There in the middle of the wide dusty road was an even more frightening sight, one she had never once allowed herself to imagine or she would have bolted at a breakneck pace screaming back to the Family and a hanging which would likely be a better ending than this one.  The member of the tribes sat his horse easily, casually almost, leaning on one knee that was bent and resting on the saddle horn.  He wore buckskin pants, moccasins, silver at his ears and wrists, a bow slung across his lean torso, a knife at his waist, a rifle in his lap.  His shining black hair flew off in odd directions as if it had met somewhere with a dull knife.  His skin glowed warmly, his face was open and smooth-planed, his eyes troubled.  His horse was a big dappled gray, sleek and muscled.

God help me, Charlotte thought.  Watching him closely, never turning away, she stepped backward until her heel hit the saddle on the ground.  Slowly she reached down and picked up the Colt.  Though he clearly saw what she was doing, he didn’t seem to be concerned.  She walked toward him, stopped when she felt the distance was right, took an open stance and raised the Colt with both hands till it was aimed at him, though her hands weren’t steady.  She didn’t intend to have any more souls on her conscience, but she had to at least make a show of defending herself.

“Throw down your weapons,” she said loudly, momentarily freeing one hand to execute a motion that would likely not be correctly interpreted in any kind of sign language.  Still he made no move, and it didn’t appear as if he would any time soon.

“I’m not afraid to shoot.”  This time she would take aim and try to hit an extremity.  But what if she shot the horse?  It was a beautiful animal.  She’d feel terrible about that.  She didn’t suppose she could ask him to get off the horse first.  Should she count to ten?  What if he had no idea what she was doing?  That wouldn’t be fair either.  Just when she felt she was running out of options, he spoke.

“How many times do you think I’ve held a gun against a woman?” he said.

She was completely taken aback, not understanding at all.  “Why do you speak English?”  Perfect English, she noted.  How could that be?

“Why do you speak English?”

Oh no, she wasn’t getting into this kind of conversation.  “How many times have you held a gun against a woman?  I don’t know.  Ten?  A hundred?”

“None.  How many times have you held a gun against a man?”

“I’m not answering that,” she said, thinking she could have lied but that would just be compounding the sins.  The Colt was getting very heavy.