Taggert. No one moved. No one spoke. A horse flinched now and then when bitten by a fly. Only the dust dared swirl on the remnants of the air currents kicked up by the crazy, circling ride of the warriors. One of the warriors moved his horse forward, stopping several yards in front of Mr. Taggert. “You trespass on our hunting grounds.” Sarah had thought she had forgotten the Sioux language she’d learned while a captive, but the first words from the warrior’s mouth brought it all slamming back to her. She started to translate for Mr. Taggert, but he cut her off, answering the warrior himself. “You aren’t hunting today. You haven’t been hunting for several days,” he said in Sioux. “You’ve been following us.” Mr. Taggert, she’d learned from bits of conversation over the last few days, had a series of trading posts from the Dakotas west through Wyoming and south to Texas. She wasn’t surprised he could understand Sioux, but he spoke it like a native. Sarah studied the warrior as she tensed for action.
