They drove far enough into the desert that it was unlikely she'd be found by anyone out of Rookwood - at least not while what was left of her was recognizable. The vultures would not be long in discovering her, once the sun rose, and even as the wagon's wheels creaked off toward camp, coyotes caught the scent. They were cautious, tricky hunters, and they would move in slowly, but once they found her, she wouldn't last long. The bones would be picked clean within a week's time. Insects and the sun would do the rest. The group had been almost gentle in laying her out. All the roughness they'd exhibited in the vicinity of The Deacon had slipped away. They were a sad lot, life-worn and broken. They sensed a kindred spirit in the thin, broken frame - and maybe something else. When the wagon's mournful voice had faded, she lay alone. Though it was cold, she didn't shiver. If a shard of silver had been held to her lips, the faintest mist might have clouded it.
