She gazed in the direction he was staring and beheld three riders, far off. “How can you tell they’re Indians?” she demanded. She couldn’t make out any of their features. Stumpy half rose out of the seat. “I can’t tell what they are,” he said, “but if Jericho says they are, they are. He’s got hawk’s eyes.” Jericho gigged his zebra dun to where he was between the buckboard and the riders, and drew rein. He waited with his hand on his hip, close to his pearl-handled Colt. “If there’s shootin’,” he said without looking back, “get her in the bed of the buckboard and stay down low.” “Will do,” Stumpy said. He shifted his holster on his belt so he could reach it easily. “You heard him, ma’am?” “I’m sitting right here,” Isolda said a trifle indignantly. She didn’t like being treated as if she were helpless. “I still don’t see that they’re even Indians.”
